Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (18 page)

Francesca refused to let him carry her into his house, where his foster parents, Rathe and Grace Bragg, and their son Rourke were in residence. The Braggs had returned to New York City two months ago and were building a new mansion not far from Hart’s place. But as she walked in with Hart firmly holding her arm—as if he thought she might faint at any moment—Alfred appeared. He took one look at her and paled. “Miss Cahill!” the bald English butler cried. “Whatever has happened?”

“I am fine, Alfred, a slight incident with a thug, that is all,” she said, over her shoulder now, as Hart was propelling her into the closest salon.

His home was as large as a museum, monstrously so—it was less than a year old—and the salon was the size of a small ballroom. He ordered her onto the first sofa they came to, and there were a dozen seating arrangements in the room. “Get Rourke, his medical bag, and two Scotch whiskeys,” he said. “Is Rourke in?” he demanded, turning to Alfred.

“Yes, sir, he is.” Alfred left instantly, almost at a run. It was the first time Francesca had ever seen him without his composure.

“This can’t be happening.” She turned to Hart, facing her worst fear. “Children as prostitutes?! The thought had occurred to me, but Bragg feels certain this is about sweatshops.” She was trembling now.

“Do not get up,” Hart warned. “My saintly brother has been lying to you.”

“But why?” she demanded—but she knew.

“To protect your fragile sensibilities,” he said flatly, “and to prevent you from worrying so.”

Francesca hugged herself. She had already suspected the
truth. Why else would all the missing girls be so beautiful? She was ill, facing it now. What ordeals were those poor children going through? “We have to find these children, before it is too late. We have to save them, Calder.”

He didn’t speak. He began to pace the room, not looking at her, removing his jacket and tossing it carelessly at a chair. He missed and it fell to the floor. He never missed a long, hard stride. He was as restless as the tiger Francesca had once seen caged at the Bronx Zoo.

Francesca had to admire him, nevertheless. She knew he was extremely upset because of her injury, yet he remained calm and in control—enough so to be the commander of an army on a battlefield. In moments like these, Hart was every bit as heroic as Bragg, she thought, her heart tightening oddly. The biggest difference between them was that Hart never put a sugar coating on anything.

Hart had stripped off his tie, having used it to bandage her neck; now he unbuttoned his collar, facing her. His face was carved in stone. It was an angry, determined expression, and it did nothing to detract from the man’s dangerous and oh-so-seductive appeal.

She wet her lips. “Is there any chance you are wrong?” she whispered. “Is there any chance Bragg is right and these girls have been forced into a sweatshop?”

Hart halted, staring down at her, his stance a terribly offensive one. “I doubt I am wrong. They would abduct younger children for a sweatshop, as they would be far easier to control. Besides, I overheard a stranger a few nights ago mentioning something to his friend about a new brothel, one that offers purity and innocence.” He never took his gaze from her face. “I do believe those were his exact words—’purity and innocence.’ ”

The girls were enslaved in a brothel. It was too terrible to even contemplate. She felt the tears rising then, blinding her.

She could not fail them
.

And he was on his knees, at her side. “Darling, don’t
cry. You cannot save the entire world,” he whispered, lifting her chin in his hand.

Her mouth was trembling wildly as their eyes met. And she didn’t want to cry. She stared into his navy blue gaze, flecked with amber and gold, and whispered, “But I can try.”

“Yes, you can try—but perhaps with a bit less passion?” He smiled a little then, but his gaze was searching.

“Calder, the plight of those children . . . ”She could not continue and she moved into his arms, her cheek upon his chest, somehow kneeling on the floor with him.

He unpinned her hat, threw it aside, and stroked her hair. “I know, darling, I know.” He kissed her cheekbone, and suddenly his mouth, against her skin, stilled.

And Francesca felt the beast the moment it arose. His mouth remained unmoving, pressed against her cheek. In that second, Hart’s sudden desire slammed over her, as hard as any physical blow. In that moment her heart lurched wildly, and when it began beating again it was to fill her veins with hot blood. And there was simply no doubt about the need that had so swiftly arisen.

He pulled back and their gazes locked.

“Calder.” His name sounded like a seductive caress, even to her own ears, in the still of the huge room.

His jaw flexed. He tilted her face up, his fingers long and strong. “Maybe if I keep you in my bed, we can avoid the dangerous episodes that you constantly find yourself in.”

“Maybe,” she breathed.

Hart stared, his gaze smoldering, and he lowered his face toward hers.

“What’s happened?” Rourke’s voice sounded from the threshold of the room, at once doctorlike and calm.

Hart gracefully stood, bringing Francesca to her feet with him. Then he turned away, but she saw his lids lower, shielding his eyes and the urgency evident in them. It was a moment before he looked up at his brother and Grace, who was at Rourke’s side. In that moment, Francesca tried
to breathe naturally and hoped her cheeks were not too red. “Francesca was assaulted with a knife. Hopefully the cut on her throat is a superficial one.” How calm he sounded then.

Rourke had his black medical bag in hand, and instantly he faced his mother. “Please bring me a bowl of warm water, clean rags, lye soap, and any linens you may find for a bandage.”

“Of course.” Grace gave Francesca one wide-eyed look and raced from the room, past Alfred, who was entering with a tray containing two whiskeys.

Rourke smiled at Francesca. “We must stop meeting this way. Could you sit down, please?”

Once, it had disturbed her to look at him, as he could be Rick Bragg’s twin. But that was no longer the case—he was very different from his older brother, and not just because he wished to be a doctor. She sat down on the edge of the sofa. “Yes, we must. It is nice to see you, Rourke.”

He smiled, a smile always accompanied by two dimples, as he gently untied the tie Hart had used as a bandage. “But I do wish it were under better circumstances,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

She almost told him that she was quite ill, but that had everything to do with the missing girls and nothing to do with her neck. “I was very dizzy at first, but I couldn’t breathe when he assaulted me. I am fine now.”

Rourke paused. “I need warm water to remove this. I am going to take your pulse and listen to your heart.”

Francesca nodded. As he lifted her wrist, she glanced at Hart, who stood behind Rourke with Alfred, a scotch in hand. Hart never removed his gaze from her, and he seemed terribly grim. She thought about what would have happened if Rourke and Grace hadn’t entered the salon when they had, and she looked away.

“Pulse is normal,” Rourke said cheerfully, taking a stethoscope from his bag. He did not glance behind but said to Hart, “Could you step out, please?”

“She is my fiancée,” he growled.

“Congratulations. Now step out. Grace may come in when she returns,” he said amiably.

Francesca glanced at Hart, who quaffed half the whiskey and then marched out with Alfred, closing the double doors behind him. She unbuttoned her shirtwaist, uncomfortable now and aware of blushing.

“That’s enough,” Rourke said mildly after she had undone three buttons, and not even looking at her, he laid the stethoscope against her bare skin, listening to her heart beating. As he moved it around, never glancing at her, she felt her cheeks cool. He was very professional, she thought. And she dared to study him.

He had the Bragg cheekbones, high and sharp, the golden skin, the amber eyes. He was about Bragg’s height, six feet, but not as lean. His hair was more brown than gold, but there were sun-bleached tips around his face. His brows were startlingly dark.

She thought about him and Sarah Channing. Rourke was a catch, and undoubtedly many beautiful women chased him. Sarah was both a bohemian and an artist, at once skinny and some would say plain. But Rourke had been so interested in everything she had to say that night at supper at the Waldorf. Perhaps he had only been playing the part of a perfect gentleman.

Still, when Sarah had fainted, he had taken her home and nursed her through a raging fever. But he was in medical school; he would one day be a doctor.

“I am going to listen to your lungs,” he said, sliding the icy cold stethoscope beneath her shirtwaist and down her back.

“How is Philadelphia?” Francesca asked.

“Hush.”

A moment later he removed the stethoscope. “Your pulse, heart, and lungs are normal. Now we need to remove that tie and look at the wound.”

“How is Philadelphia?” Francesca tried again.

His dark brows lifted. “I did very well on my midterms,” he said.

“You must study very hard.”

He seemed amused. “Yes, I do. We all do.”

“All work and no play, how boring.” She grinned.

He began to appear slightly suspicious. “One must always find the time to enjoy oneself, Francesca. By the way, is it true? You and Calder are engaged?”

She flushed and held up her hand, showing him the ring.

He was suitably impressed. “My, things have swiftly changed since I was last here.” He gave her an odd look.

She knew he referred to Bragg. She shrugged. “Yes, they have. So what do you do when you are not studying?” she asked lightly.

He studied her. “I have friends. I do what most gentlemen do. Supper, the occasional affair, a club.”

She simply had to know. “And who is she?” She grinned but was breathless now, praying for the right answer.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who is the lady who holds your heart?”

He looked at her for a moment and then shook his head with a small laugh. “If you are asking me if I am seeing someone, the answer is no. At least, not in the way that you mean.”

Her mind raced even as she was exultant—for he wasn’t involved and that gave Sarah a chance! Then she blinked. “You have a mistress?”

“Francesca,” he had begun sternly when Grace suddenly came into the room. “Ah, the troops have arrived—just in time.”

“Dear, how are you?” Grace asked, setting the tray down on a small side table. She was a tall, willowy redhead in her middle years, still very attractive, even with the hornrimmed spectacles she wore. She had also been one of the nation’s first suffragettes. Today she was considered a leader of the women’s movement.

“I believe I am fine.”

“Are you on another case?” Grace asked.

“Yes, and it involves missing children—all young, attractive, and female.”

Grace grimaced. “Oh, dear. May I help?”

Francesca started as Rourke began to sponge down the tie. “That is a wonderful offer. I am sure I can use some help.”

Rourke shook his head, gently prying the tie from her skin. “Mother, Francesca attracts danger the way honey attracts bees. I don’t think your involvement is a good idea.”

“Do not dare treat me as an elderly individual,” Grace warned. And she smiled at Francesca, sending her a wink.

Rourke sighed as Hart paced into the room, demanding, “Well?”

“A moment, please,” Rourke said, peeling off the tie.

“Where is my scotch?” Francesca asked, wincing.

Hart came to her and handed her his half a glass.

She gulped it down.

“Sorry,” Rourke murmured.

Grace was staring. Francesca realized she had seen the ring, and she began to flush uncomfortably now. Hart said, “They heard this morning. I told them the news.”

Francesca didn’t know what to say as Grace looked up from the ring. Their gazes held. And while Grace wasn’t Rick’s or Calder’s natural mother, she and Rathe had taken both boys in upon the death of Lily, their mother. Francesca knew she considered both Rick and Calder her sons.

And she was no fool. She had seen right through everyone’s charade the moment she had met Francesca—Grace knew both Rick and Calder vied for Francesca’s attentions, and it had worried her enough for her to speak sharply to Francesca about it. Francesca remained uncertain of how Grace felt about the entire situation. She had made it clear she did not want to see Rick and Calder fighting over any woman. She had also made it clear that Rick remained married. Her last words to Francesca had been about the fact that Calder was not.

“Is this official?” Grace asked quietly.

In that moment, as Rourke finally got the tie free from
Francesca’s wound, Francesca realized she had no idea of the outcome of Hart’s interview with her father. She gasped, meeting his gaze. “Calder! What happened when you met with Papa?”

He smiled at her. “We are official, my dear. But your father insists upon a year-long engagement.”

Francesca wasn’t surprised that Hart had won this battle. He seemed undefeatable, at least to her. “A year?” And real dismay overcame her. They would have to wait an entire year to wed?

“A small price to pay for his consent, don’t you think?” Hart smiled. But his eyes were glinting and he knew where Francesca’s thoughts lay.

“Well, this is good news indeed,” Rourke said. “The wound is superficial. A mere cut. No stitches are necessary, my biggest fear.” He smiled at her. “I will clean this up and you shall be healed in no time.”

“Will she scar?” Grace asked.

“No. But I’d suggest you put an ointment on it just to make sure. It’s called Doctor Bill’s Vitamin and Mineral Miracle Salve.” He finished cleaning the wound with lye soap. “How about some bed rest, Francesca? The human body heals faster with rest, as it gives the cells time to repair.”

Francesca nodded. “I will try.” Suddenly she realized that not only did she have a huge cut on her throat, but her shirt was stained with blood also. She turned to Hart, alarmed. “I can’t go home like this! If Julia or anyone sees this cut, I will never be allowed out of the house, at least not unless I am on someone’s leash.”