A Candle in the Dark (2 page)

She had other plans for her future. She’d spent her life fighting, trying to survive, had done what she had to in a world limited by poverty and her mother’s fatal illness. Damned if she would let some rich, sadistic bastard finish her before she’d even begun to live.

She had tarried too long. It was time to be gone, and Davey had given her no other out. She needed a man—
any
man—and this drunkard of Davey’s was the only one available.

A grim smile touched her lips. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t handle a drunk. She’d been handling them since the day she crossed the threshold of Rosalie’s brothel five years ago. He would be easy enough to deal with.

Besides, she reasoned, if he got to be too much trouble, she could always give him his blessed bottle.

Right over his head.

“D’Alessandro, ‘ere’s someone you should meet.”

Cain opened his eyes, struggling to remember where he was. He tried to focus on the people standing before him. They wavered and twisted until he could concentrate. Ah yes, he was at Cavey Davey’s, and that was Davey and—and the woman he’d been watching earlier.

He tried to sit up, rolling his head off his arm, backing away from the table to waver unsteadily in his chair. The world spun for a moment and then cleared.

“Davey?” His voice was hoarse and croaking. Was it even his? Cain closed his eyes, struggling for control. When he opened them again, he caught her staring at him. Measuring him. The sight of her cool calculation pierced the cloud of drink.

“Cain D’Alessandro, this is the Duchess. I mean—eh—” Davey looked distinctly uncomfortable.

The woman called the Duchess didn’t. She smiled—a charming smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, but charming enough to make him wonder if he’d imagined the calculation of before. She extended her hand as if she were some sort of princess. “Ana,” she said in a clear, musical voice.

Cain stared at her hand, suddenly remembering the trouble he’d sensed when she entered the tavern. No wonder he’d seen it. Her fingers were covered with blood.

His gaze moved up her arm, rested on her skirt. It too was covered with blood. And there was a cut on her face. She was hurt, she needed his help. The familiar fear raced through him, but the drink blurred it, brought with it a strange sense of inevitability, even a dismal, desperate hope. Maybe this time he would fail so badly it would give him the courage to finally end it all.

Even as he recoiled from it, the thought brought exquisite relief. Without hesitation, Cain reached for the small wood and leather case he carried with him. His fingers brushed over the brass tacks that formed his initials.

“Tell m’where the pain is,” he said, setting it on the table.

“Huh?” Davey grunted.

Cain glanced up. The woman—Duchess, Ana, whatever her name was—stared at his bag, then at him, with a mixture of confusion and revulsion.

“You’re a doctor.”

Cain frowned at the accusation in her voice. “Yes.”

“He’s a doctor.” She turned to Davey, who looked suddenly nervous. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t know!”

“No.” She wiped her bloody hands on her skirt as if they had suddenly touched something vile. “No doctors—”

“Duchess, there ain’t much time.”

“Excuse me?” Cain looked from one to the other. Was he missing something here? He motioned to the bench next to him. “You’re covered with blood. Sit down.”

She jerked away, even though he hadn’t touched her. “I’m fine,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“You got no choice,” Davey said, his expression intent. Then, when the woman paid no attention: “I can’t get no one else on such short notice, gel. It’s either ‘im or Buffalo.”

Him or Buffalo? Cain blinked, suppressing a sudden urge to laugh. Christ, he knew he was drunk, but surely even he looked better than Buffalo. What the hell were they talking about? The world was taking on sharp edges again, and he felt the familiar gnawing in his gut that told him he either needed another drink or a few hours in bed.

He glanced longingly at the bar, and then sighed. Bed was the better choice, he knew. He looked at the woman and Davey arguing back and forth in low voices. Well, as long as she wasn’t hurt, he could go to bed with a clear conscience. Or as clear a one as he ever had. They could argue without him. He couldn’t even remember why Davey had brought her over.

Cain rose unsteadily, planting his hand on the table to brace himself. He reached behind him for the crumpled frock coat he’d abandoned earlier.

“It’s been pleasant,” he tried to say, though it came out sounding a bit slurred now that he’d abandoned the effort to appear coherent. “But I’m afraid—”

They stopped arguing and turned to stare at him.

“What are you doing?” The Duchess’s tone was suddenly harsh. Her eyes bored into him.

“Leaving.”

“But—”

“No!”

She and Davey spoke at the same time. Cain narrowed his eyes, trying to focus. He tucked his medical bag under his arm.

“Thanks for the invitation,” he said. “But no thanks.”

“But…” Davey scrambled for words. “But Duchess ‘ere, she thought you might like to ‘ave another drink.”

Cain stopped.

“Yes, of course.” She moved quickly, spreading her shimmering skirts and seating herself on the bench. “Another drink. Please bring a bottle, won’t you, Davey?”

Cain stared at her, at the way she dismissed Davey as if she were royalty, at the poised and elegant way she seated herself, and he knew in that moment that she was even more trouble than he’d first thought. He wanted to say no to the drink, he really did, but suddenly his mouth was watering and his gut was churning, and there was nothing on earth he wanted more than that bourbon.

She watched him avidly, leaning forward just enough to create cleavage between her small breasts. The black lace trimming her bodice dipped and swelled.

Cain swallowed. “Whiskey,” he choked.

She flashed a smile. “Whiskey, Davey.”

Cain felt for the bench and sat, shoving his coat and bag aside. She was staring at him, and he suddenly felt as if she was seeing every imperfection: his olive skin and his too-long hair, and the way he wore only crumpled and stained shirtsleeves while his frock coat lay abandoned beside him. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to shrug into it again, and anger washed over him at the thought.

“Duchess,” he said slowly, fighting to keep his thoughts and his words clear. “What d’you want with me?”

Something flickered through her eyes, but it was too dark to see them clearly, and he was too drunk to care.

“Davey said he could trust you.”

“Why?”

“Is he wrong?” A tight smile played at her lips. “You feel you’re not trustworthy?”

“What’s it to you whether I am or not?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

A barmaid thumped a bottle on the table and retreated. Cain reached for it and sloshed a good portion into his glass, downing it quickly. Its warmth spread through his stomach, into his blood. He poured another glass. “What proposition?”

“I need a partner.”

Cain gulped his drink. “Didn’t look to me like you cared for doctors.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” she said quickly. “I need a partner.”

“No, thank you.”

She didn’t take her eyes from his face. “Davey said you were used to traveling.”

Cain straightened. Traveling? What the hell did that have to do with anything? This entire conversation was strange. He thought for a minute that the drink was making him hallucinate, but she was too real to be an illusion.

“He said you never stayed in one place long.” She said quickly, as if afraid he would interrupt her. “I need someone to travel with me. I’ll pay you well. Very well.” She took a deep breath, as if the next words were a necessary evil. “How long has it been since you had a woman?”

He nearly choked on the bourbon.

Her voice dropped to a practiced purr. “What about me? Do you want me?”

Cain leaned forward. “Listen, Duchess, Ana, or whoever you are, I’m not interested, but since it looks like that won’t shut you up, why don’t you just come out and tell me what you want?”

She stiffened. “I need someone to pose as my husband to California. I need to leave soon—tomorrow if possible—on the next steamer to Panama, but I can’t go alone. Even you must be able to see that I’ll need someone to protect me on the trip.”

“You don’t look like you need help.”

“But I do.” Her voice was low and intense. “There arc—people—looking for me. They’ll be looking for a lone woman, not a couple.”

“Why me?”

“Davey said he trusted you. He said you could survive. And that you spoke Spanish.”

“Ah.” He laughed shortly. “
Chapurro
.”

“What did you say?”

He shrugged. “That I get by, that’s all. It’s been a long time since I had to speak it.”

She nodded. “Will you do it? Will you come with me?”

“It depends on what I get in return.”

She shifted her body subtly, and he saw the cleavage again. Suddenly the aristocrat was gone, in her place a whore. He wasn’t sure how she’d done it, but she’d replaced cold distance with seduction.

“In return for pretending to be my husband, I’ll give you husbandly rights,” she said, her voice low and throaty. “All yours. No one else, until we get to California.”

“I wouldn’t offer free medicine to a well man,” he said. “What else do you have?”

She looked confused for only a moment. “I’ll pay for everything. Your tickets, your food.”

“I expect that. What else?”

“Your booze,” she said angrily. “Cash. Enough for your next bottle, and the one after that, and the one after that.”

He saw her look away, as if ashamed by her outburst. The motion told him that, drunk as he was, he hadn’t misread her earlier. She was desperate. Desperate enough to ask a man like him for help.

“What’d you do, Duchess?” he joked. “Kill somebody?”

Her gaze was challenging. “Yes. I think I did.”

Cain dropped his glass in surprise. It crashed to the table and bounced off. Bourbon splashed over the surface and onto her dress.

She didn’t move, and her eyes never left his. “So you see, Mr. D’Alessandro, why I need your help. And your answer.”

Christ, what he wouldn’t give right now for a clear head. Cain knew he was on the verge of saying yes, of leaving everything familiar to follow this woman. It was ridiculous—she was a murderess and a whore, and there was something about her cool manners that disturbed him.

He didn’t want the trouble she brought, didn’t want to have anything to do with her at all.

She was still staring at him, and her gaze sent an insidious, coiling heat into the pit of his stomach. There was something in her expressionless face, something that burrowed inside of him with a tenacity he knew he’d never be able to shake. Hell, if he left now, if he walked out of the tavern and never came back, he knew he would remember this woman for the rest of his life. Would always regret that he didn’t go.

After all, he had nothing to lose, did he? There was nothing for him in New York. And she promised plenty of whiskey, enough to keep him comfortably numb for the next few months if he needed it, enough to keep his memories comfortably at bay.

Still…

“I’ll go,” he said roughly.

Ana gritted her teeth as he tripped once again, throwing the whole of his weight onto her shoulder. She struggled to hold him before he braced his hand on the wall of the stairway and regained his balance.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “M’ room’s not far.”

She said nothing. It was late, and she was tired. The events of the day settled in her stomach like a lead weight. She glanced at the man beside her. He was very, very drunk, and a man used to being that way, it seemed. Her heart sank. What had she done? Why had she listened to Davey when he told her Cain D’Alessandro was trustworthy?

He was a drunkard, and a doctor to boot. A
doctor
. The word filled her with revulsion. Thank God he had turned down her offer of sex. She wasn’t sure she could have let him touch her.

Normally she would have found a man like Cain D’Alessandro attractive enough. He was tall and broad shouldered, though he was strangely lean, his clothes too loose. His dark, thick hair fell to his shoulders. Much too long, she thought. Unkempt.

But the most compelling thing about him was his eyes. They seemed too large in the gauntness of his face, accentuating the hollowness of his cheeks, the high, broad cheekbones that suggested Spanish ancestry. But mostly, the dark brown depths of his eyes seemed to hide secrets. Haunting, painful secrets…

“Up here.” D’Alessandro rounded the top of the stairs. His fingers were white where they grasped the corner. He stumbled at the top step and slumped against the wall. “Thisss room.”

.
Haunting and painful indeed
. Ana brushed by him, twisting the lever on the flimsy door and pushing it open.

It was a cheap boardinghouse room, like hundreds she’d seen before, with one dim lamp. She lit it quickly, glancing over her shoulder at D’Alessandro, who still leaned against the wall outside. She shouldn’t have ordered that last bottle, she thought grimly. At least he’d been coherent before.

She stood in the doorway and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you coming in?”

He blinked, pulling himself upright. He wavered there for a moment. “Of course,” he said carefully, the slurring barely under control. “It’s my room, isn’t it?”

“I assume so.”

” ‘I ‘ssume so,’” he mimicked. “Duchess’s a good name for you. Better’n Ana.”

She watched him impassively, not moving. It was the only way to deal with a drunkard, she knew from experience. Don’t goad them, let them talk and fall until they pass out. Oh yes, she knew plenty about drunkards.

He walked toward her unsteadily. “You’re pretty, y’know? Don’t know how I’ll keep m’ hands off you.”

A flutter of apprehension shivered through her. Ana ignored it. It was the drink talking; only a few hours earlier, he’d told her himself that sex didn’t interest him.

“Go to bed,” she said evenly.