Escapade (9781301744510) (17 page)

"No, of course not." Zeke moaned. "Don't
concern yourself. Just a few broken ribs, I guess. A little
concussion. I doubt I'll black out before someone else comes
along."

"Morrison, if you are faking-." She hurried
over and bent down to peer at him. He permitted a spasm of pain to
wrack his features.

"Zeke?" She placed one hand tentatively on
his shoulder. "Oh, the devil! The train's coming. Come on. I'll
help you. Are you dizzy? Lean on me."

With a heroic nod, he struggled to his feet,
only too willing to encircle the softness of her shoulders,
burdening her with just enough of his weight to be convincing
without crushing her.

As she helped him toward the tracks, he gazed
down at the fine strands of her hair tossed into that gypsy-wild
tangle that was already becoming so familiar to him. His mouth
curved into a tender smile, a smile he was quick to erase when she
chanced to glance up at him.

Although she regarded him with suspicion, she
made no effort to draw away. The El clattered forward in an
ear-shattering rumble, the whistle blasting as the train hissed to
a halt in a cloud of acrid steam and sparks.

A few passengers disembarked as he and Rory
eased their way through the narrow door. Zeke sank down onto the
nearest empty seat, Rory nearly lurching on top of him as the train
jerked into movement once more. In another few seconds they were
lumbering off through the night.

Zeke supposed he must look as disreputable as
a tomcat that had strayed down one alley too many. Besides the
bruises swelling his cheek, his Chesterfield coat was torn and
blood-stained. But he drew only a few curious glances from the
other passengers. For the most part, New Yorkers tended to mind
their own business. Rory drew a plain linen handkerchief from her
pocket and wrapped up his bleeding knuckles. Something in her
manner of brisk efficiency told him this wasn't the first time she
had tended the wounds of a man after a bout of fisticuffs.

Mrs. Van H. would have taken one look at him,
given a shudder of distaste and ordered him to return when he
appeared more like a gentleman. But Rory did not seem in the least
shocked by his condition or the fight she had just witnessed.

She said with grudging admiration, "You
handled yourself real well back there. I guess you didn't need my
help. Not at all what I would have expected from a Fifth Avenue
swell."

"Swells don't last long in this part of
town," he returned dryly.

His remark caused her to glance sharply up at
him, but she made no comment as she finished knotting the
handkerchief. "There. That's the best I can do until I get you
home."

Home- that had a nice sound to it, Zeke
thought, resting his head back against the seat. He had to admit he
had had his doubts earlier when he had been tearing along in that
hansom cab, Rory's card clutched in his fist.

Even then he hadn't been sure what madness
had come over him, setting out in pursuit of a woman who had
already rejected him once. But now that he had seen Rory again, he
understood. It was indeed a madness, but of the sweetest kind.

One touch of her hand and he felt the full
force of his desire for her all over again. When she stroked her
fingers along the line of his jaw, earnestly examining the extent
of his bruise, he didn't even flinch. Instead he had an urge to cup
her hand, press a kiss against the warm center of her palm.

But he restrained himself. He could scarce
try to make love to her on the El, and he didn't want her running
away from him again.

Gently, Zeke. Go gently this time. Even the
clack of the train wheels seemed to admonish him. So he bided his
time, allowing his eyes to drift half-closed, soothed by her
feather-light caress and the monotonous clatter of the train.

It had been a long time since he had ridden
on the El. He had forgotten how the tracks seemed to cut through
the very pulse of the city. It was as if one could thrust out one's
hand and reach into the upper stories of the tenement windows.

Vignettes flashed by like scenes from a play:
a lodging house where some pathetic old men were bedding down on
the floor; the topmost room of one of those hellish sweat¬shops,
young girls growing old before their time hunched over sewing
machines; a dingy parlor where a haggard lad was swilling rotgut
and shooting dice.

Yet in the midst of this, there was an
occasional room with a plump motherly woman darning socks or
standing over a steaming iron while a brood of children romped like
puppies at her feet. It never failed to amaze Zeke, the strength of
such women, their ability to fashion a place that could be called
home even in the midst of such wretched poverty.

It never failed to remind him that he had
known such a home once, such a woman.

"Zeke?"

Rory's voice recalled him from his thoughts.
He was a little surprised to discover that he was no longer leaning
back, but sitting bolt upright and staring out the train
window.

Finding Rory's troubled gaze upon him, he
forced himself to settle back.

"Is your pain getting worse?" she asked. "You
had such an odd look in your eyes just now."

He forced a smile. "I guess over the years, I
have taken a few too many knocks to the head."

No, Rory thought. More likely too many knocks
to the heart. This wasn't the first time she had seen that haunted
look shadow Zeke's face. Although outwardly she accepted his
explanation, she could not help but wonder what ghosts he had
glimpsed out the windows of the train.

She studied the man who had erupted back into
her life. Earlier today she had tried hard to dismiss Zeke as
though he had been some figment of her imagination. But she saw now
it had been Delmonico's and that castle on Fifth Avenue that had
seemed like a dream, but not Zeke.

His broad shoulders solidly filled the seat
opposite her. He was far too real, his presence too strong. There
was nothing dreamlike about the man. Even his bruises, his torn
collar, became him in an odd sort of way, more so than any silk
ruffled shirt would have.

She thought she would be reliving the fight
scene for weeks in her nightmares, that horrible moment when it had
appeared as though Zeke were about to have his throat slit. All
dressed in his elegant clothes, he must have seemed an easy victim
to those two thieves.

What a surprise Zeke must have given them!
She started to smile only to end with a perplexed frown. The more
she thought about the fight and O'Connell's sudden arrival, the
more some elusive memory niggled at her, a memory of something that
seemed not quite right.

Perhaps it was nothing more than that Zeke
had fought with such unexpected ferocity. She could not help
recalling what Tony had hinted earlier, that Zeke's origins were no
mystery and that he hailed from the East Side, ‘the old
neighborhood.’ By that, Rory knew Tony meant that part of New York
his family had inhabited before the Bertellis had moved on the
block adjacent to hers. The old neighborhood was that colorful
noisy tenement district known as Little Italy.

Not as dangerous a place as the notorious
Five Points, but a man still had to be tough to survive there. Rory
had no doubt Zeke possessed such toughness. He had fought off those
two street thugs with all the ruthless savvy of any dockworker. A
man didn't get muscular forearms like Zeke's from a lifetime spent
in playing croquet on the front lawn.

Of course, such impressions weren't facts.
She could not say for sure that Tony was right. But instinct told
her that whatever Zeke's past life, it hadn't been an easy one. Her
curiosity was roused, yet she hesitated to ask Zeke questions.

Even now she could sense him squirming under
her scrutiny. He closed his eyes. Whether he was only feigning
sleep, she couldn't tell. She only knew he didn't look quite so
formidable with his dark lashes resting against his cheeks, that
rock-hard jaw for once relaxed. It roused strange feelings in Rory,
the urge to stroke back his hair, tuck a quilt beneath his
chin.

She almost hated to disturb him, but the
train was rapidly approaching her stop. It took no more than a
touch to urge him to his feet. By the time he followed her down
from the platform to the street below, he appeared to have
forgotten his injuries and had taken to scolding her.

"I hope you don't make a habit of walking the
streets after dark. The Lord knows, you certainly can't rely on the
coppers hereabouts for protection."

"The police in our precinct are much better
than Sergeant O'Connell," she assured him. The mention of the
policeman's name struck off a sudden realization. She recalled that
elusive something that had been troubling her earlier about the
fight. It had nothing at all to do with Zeke's prowess in fending
off the thugs, but rather with what had transpired after the
arrival of the police.

"Zeke! O'Connell knew you."

"What?"

"He did. He called you by name. I remember
clearly now." Rory halted in the flickering shadow of a gaslight.
Troubled, she stared up at Zeke, remembering Tony's insinuations,
that to become so wealthy, Zeke must have done something shady. He
might be on most intimate terms with the police for the wrong
reasons.

Although Zeke looked startled by her words,
he said, "I can assure you I never set eyes on O'Connell before
tonight."

Rory could not say why, but she believed
him.

"Maybe he saw my picture in the papers." Zeke
suggested.

Rory shook her head. O'Connell wasn't the
sort to delve into the society columns. Besides, in his battered
state, no one would have recognized Zeke as J. E. Morrison Esquire
of Millionaire's Row, not even his dear friend Mrs. Van
Hallsburg.

"Then O'Connell must have heard you say my
name." Zeke gave an impatient shrug. Taking her gently by the
elbow, he urged her into movement once more.

"I suppose that must have been the case,"
Rory agreed, but she didn't feel quite satisfied with that
explanation either. The more she considered the matter, the more
she thought that O'Connell could have done more to apprehend Zeke's
assailants if he had chosen. She had seen the policeman bring down
a malefactor with one expert flick of his nightstick tossed between
running legs.

And when O'Connell had tried to send Rory on
her way, offering to guide Zeke to a doctor himself, she had been
beset by a vague feeling of alarm.

It was almost as if-. Rory drew herself up
short. It was almost as if Rory Kavanaugh was letting her
imagination run wild again. She tried to put a shivery feeling of
foreboding behind her as she directed Zeke's steps toward her own
block.

McCreedy Street was as quiet as ever, the
gaslit lamps like a row of miniature beacons heralding the way to
the snug row of brownstones. Front parlors glowed with that
after-Sunday-supper contentment, families settling down to make an
early night before the next work week began.

Mrs. Flanagan had even taken in Finn for the
evening, although as Rory led Zeke up her front steps, she noticed
the spinster's lace curtain stir. By this time tomorrow, it would
be all over the neighborhood that Rory Kavanaugh had brought a man
home with her.

"It's only the devil, Miss Flanagan," Rory
muttered under her breath so that not even Zeke could hear. She
felt a quiver of unexpected nervousness run through her.

Outside the corridor to her flat, she fumbled
with the keys until Zeke removed them from her grasp and unlocked
the door himself. His muscular frame seemed to dwarf the narrow
hallway, casting a looming shadow on the opposite wall.

What was she doing, bringing Zeke Morrison up
to her flat? By now she knew danged well he was faking much of his
misery. Whatever the extent of his hurts, they didn't prevent him
from regarding her with that wicked gleam in his eyes.

Still, the bruise swelling his jaw did need
attention. She couldn't have just left him that way. All her life
she had gathered in strays—abandoned baby birds, wounded kittens,
lost puppies. But she knew Zeke was far more dangerous.

The wolf was back at her door, but instead of
barring the way, she preceded him, lighting the gas jets so he
could see his way to come inside. With the soft glow of the lamps,
her parlor seemed to surround her, as it always did, like a pair of
loving arms. Little had changed about the place since the days when
her mother had kept it all so neat and tidy. The rose print
wallpaper had faded a little, but the overstuffed sofa and chair
stood in their customary places next to the dark oak of the parlor
table. Velour curtains fringed with tassels shut out the night,
while the wobbly corner shelf all but collapsed under the weight of
bric-a-brac, wax flowers under glass domes, Da's stuffed owl,
Mama's precious collection of teacups and saucers, Rory's own
wooden music box.

She turned to invite Zeke to enter, but he
already had.

"Do come in and make yourself at home, Mr.
Morrison," she murmured wryly as Zeke strode about the room,
inspecting everything with an approving eye.

"This is real nice. You live here all
alone?"

Zeke could make the most innocent questions
sound fraught with seduction.

"Yes, but I have neighbors just across the
hall," she said quickly. "Aren't you still feeling dizzy? Perhaps I
should fetch my smelling salts."

Her sharp reminder caused him to waver, to
recollect that he was supposed to be on the verge of collapse.

"I am still feeling pretty groggy." He made a
great show of rubbing the back of his head. "If I could just rest
here for a while."

With a soft groan, he sagged down into the
depths of the armchair. Rory pulled a face at this bit of
melodrama, but all she said was "I'll go get you a compress for
that jaw."