Fletcher's Woman (15 page)

“Griffin?” ventured Molly's voice, from the doorway.

Griffin opened his weary eyes, forcing them to focus on the agitated frame of his housekeeper. “Hello, Molly,” he said companionably.

She was wringing her hands, and her eyes were snapping. Both bad signs.

“What now?” Griffin sighed.

“It's Rachel. . . .”

Griffin felt a sudden need for a lot more whiskey. “Yes?”

Molly crept into the room, as though she was approaching a bonfire laid with dynamite. “I tried to stop her, Griffin, I swear I did.”

Griffin closed his eyes again, braced himself. “Go on,” he snapped after a long, tense moment.

The answering words came in a burst, like bullets flung from a Gatling gun. “Jonas Wilkes took her for a carriage ride, and she came back with trunkloads of clothes. Tomorrow, she tells me, Jonas will escort her to a church picnic!”

Griffin absorbed the news calmly, for Molly's sake. Obviously, she hadn't exactly been looking forward to telling him. “Is she here now?” he asked, with consummate reason.

“Aye. She's upstairs, trying on all her new clothes.”

Griffin spoke in carefully modulated, nonexplosive tones. “Send her in here immediately. And Molly?”

“Yes?”

“If you hear her scream, rush in here and throw cold water in my face or something.”

Molly laughed with soft, constricted amusement, and her skirts rustled as she hurried out.

Griffin refilled his empty glass and went to a window to wait. The darkness outside seemed to be seeping into his spirit, gathering there for God knew what disastrous purpose. A carriage ride, a few clothes, a picnic—what did he care?

But something writhed within him.
Not
again, it vowed.
Not again.

She spoke his name cautiously, softly. “Dr. Fletcher?”

Griffin forced himself to turn slowly; it was a moment before he allowed his brain to absorb what he saw. When it had, he felt as though he'd just intercepted ten of the lumberjack Greenhorn's best gut punches.

Rage pounded in Griffin's throat and twisted in his taut stomach as he looked at her, looked at the too-familiar lines of her rose-colored taffeta dress. A savage word tore itself free of his throat and hissed past his lips.

The open, torturously lovely face paled and Rachel retreated a step. It was the dazed confusion in her eyes that stayed him from striding across the room and ripping the dress from her body.

“Jonas gave you that?” he rumbled, and the sentence was at once a question and an accusation.

Purple eyes bright, Rachel nodded quickly. “I didn't think it would matter—the clothes were going to waste. He said they were a painful reminder—”

“Yes, I imagine he did. Take it off.”

The fine, fierce little chin lifted. “I will
not!
It's my dress and I'll wear it if I please!”

Griffin closed his eyes against the sight of her—the sight of the dress—drew one raspy breath, and then another. A blonde, laughing wraith played in his mind, wearing that rose taffeta gown.
“Don't be such a goose, Griffin,”
it taunted, in a distant, musical, and devastatingly well-remembered voice. “
I only love you . . . you know I only love you.”

“Whore,” breathed Griffin, speaking not to Rachel, but to the bewitching sorceress laughing in his memory.

There was an outcry, and a small, frantic fist made numbing contact with his face, another battered at his chest. Choking on an old and fathomless fury, Griffin opened his eyes, grasped Rachel's thin wrists in one hand, and stayed the attack.

She glared up at him, her orchid eyes dark with wounded rage. “I hate you!” she gasped.

“Don't say that.” It was a plea, and it was an order.

Rachel struggled; he held her fast. “You called me a whore!” she whispered, incredulously.

“No,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Liar! I heard you!”

He opened his eyes, forced them to focus on her pinched face. “What you heard had nothing to do with you,” he said. And everything sensible within Griffin demanded that he thrust her away and escape from the deadly magic of her nearness, but he couldn't. He wrenched her close, felt the sweet, soft press of her breasts against his chest, the shattering promise of her thighs and stomach against his hips. Grasping her face in both hands, he bent his head and kissed her.

She resisted only briefly, then he felt something powerful course from her body into his. She was pliant against him, her lips soft and searching under his own.

He released her so swiftly that she stumbled a little before catching herself. “Is that how you got to Jonas?” he drawled, in a voice that was purposely cruel.

Tears sparkled in her thick, dark eyelashes and trickled down a proud, defiant face. “Griffin Fletcher, you—you
bastard!
You wicked, lecherous—”

Griffin smiled brittlely. “Don't forget ‘arrogant',” he urged.

She was retreating backward, her fists clenched. “I hate you, I
despise
you. I hope you burn in hell!”

Griffin let his hands rest on his hips, his eyes travel over her with deliberate insolence. “If I see you wearing that dress again, Miss McKinnon,” he said. “I'll tear it off you. Is that clear?”

Horror filled the rounded violet eyes. Rachel turned to run and collided hard with Field Hollister.

Field kept her from falling by grasping her trembling shoulders. “Rachel, what is it . . . ?” His eyes scanned her face, lifted, and came to rest scorchingly on Griffin's. “You,” he breathed, his beloved brimstone crackling in his voice.

Griffin executed a courtly, mocking bow. Then, for emphasis, he strode to the desk, poured more whiskey, and offered a brisk, vicious toast. “Here's to Becky McKinnon's daughter.”

Rachel cried out suddenly; it was a tortured sound that flooded Griffin with wild, boundless anguish. He wanted to say he was sorry, but for some reason, he couldn't. He glared at her when she turned, slowly, in Field's gentle grasp.

“I
am
Becky McKinnon's daughter,” she said, in a proud, ragged voice. “And you may take that however you wish.”

With that, Rachel moved around Field and fled. Griffin closed his eyes against the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

Field's tone was volcanic, starting as a low, rumbling sound, rising to threaten mayhem. “Have you gone mad, Griffin?”

Griffin opened his eyes again, sighed. “Maybe.”

“Apologize to her.”

But Griffin shook his head. “No. It's better that she hates me. It will make everything easier.”

Field was outraged. “For you perhaps!” he growled. “But what about her? Griffin, she didn't deserve that kind of vicious treatment, and you know it!”

“Have her show you all the clothes Jonas gave her. Athena's clothes.”

Hollister's jaw looked rock-hard, stubborn. “So that was it. Griffin, she has no way of knowing.”

Griffin went to the cabinet where his medical supplies and instruments were kept, opened the glass doors. Then, methodically, he began to sort items that were already in perfect order.

•   •   •

Rachel had not known that it was possible to bear such pain and still live. She sat stiffly on the edge of the guest-room bed, tears stinging her face, her breath coming in short, searing gasps.

“Whore” he'd said. “Here's to Becky McKinnon's daughter.”

Bile rose in Rachel's throat, and she felt the first real hatred she had ever known—for herself, for her mother, and most of all, for Dr. Griffin Fletcher.

There was a cautious knock at the soundly locked door.

“Go away,” Rachel said flatly.

“I won't be doing that,” replied Molly Brady in brisk tones. “And I've a key if I need it.”

Rachel's legs trembled treacherously beneath her as she made her way across the room and slowly opened the door.

Molly's kindly composure was reassuring. “It wasn't you he was raging at, Rachel.”

The very mention of Griffin's savage tirade rankled her anew, prodded the raw wounds within her. “Who then?” she bit out.

“That's not important, and it's not my place to discuss it anyway. I tried to warn you, Rachel, and you wouldn't listen to me. God knows what will happen now.”

“I'll tell you what is going to happen!” Rachel retorted. “I'm going to pack my things and leave this house!”

“You ignored my first warning, Rachel. Now listen, please, to my second. Don't go.”

Frustration displaced the blood in Rachel's veins and coursed through her in its stead. “Surely you don't expect me to stay now!”

Molly arched one eyebrow. “Where is there for you to go?” she asked, with shattering logic. “There are no steamers at this hour, and if you turn to Jonas Wilkes, the results will be tragic.”

There was Tent Town, for one place; she could go there. And the saloon, for another.

Frantically, Rachel surveyed the stacks of rich clothing billowing all around the room. For the first time in her life, she knew the burden treasured possessions could be.

“Well?” prodded Molly.

“I don't know,” lied Rachel.

But hours later, when at last the house was quiet, Rachel gathered as many clothes as she could carry and crept out into the cool, welcoming night.

•   •   •

Because Mrs. Hammond had gone to bed early, Jonas answered the door himself. The set of Griffin Fletcher's face put him instantly on guard, but the day had been a rewarding one and the triumph of it sustained him.

“Hello, Griffin,” he said affably.

Griffin brushed past him and stood, glowering, seeming to darken the entry hall with his rage. “Where is she, Jonas?”

Jonas smiled cautiously. “Where is whom?” he asked.

Swiftly, Griffin's hands grasped the lapels of Jonas's smoking jacket. A muscle constricted in his jaw, relaxed again. Then, slowly, Griffin released his hold and stepped back.

Jonas's laugh was dangerous, and he knew it. It was also involuntary, born of his hatred and his need to see Griffin Fletcher brought to his knees. “Rachel!” he said. “You think Rachel is tucked into my bed, don't you, Griffin?”

The torment in Griffin's dark eyes was a source of immense satisfaction. “If she is, I'll kill you.”

“Then I can draw my next breath without worrying. She isn't here.”

Griffin's stormy gaze swung to the stairway, and a second later, he followed it, taking the gleaming marble stairs three at a time.

Jonas gripped the newel post at the base of the stairs and breathed a silent, unlikely prayer of gratitude. Then he laughed
and shouted with relish, “You're making a fool of yourself, Griffin—again!”

Overhead, he heard doors being thrust—or kicked—open. The sound brought back bittersweet memories.
You won't find Rachel here,
Jonas thought, with relief.
And that's fortunate, by the looks of things.

Presently, Griffin came downstairs again. He didn't have the grace to look sheepish. “Jonas, if you have any idea where she is, you'd better tell me. Now.”

Jonas knew the mind of his enemy; formidable as it was, it was also plagued with a sort of noble naiveté. Griffin would consider the obvious possibility briefly, and then dismiss it in disbelief.

Acting on instinct, Jonas offered it aloud, in ingenuous, helpful tones. “I think she might be at Becky's.”

Griffin's conjecture was clear in his eyes, and so was the doubt that displaced it. Jonas had a hard time hiding his gratification as he said a cordial good-night, but once he'd closed and locked the door, it broke through in a shout of laughter.

Rachel lay, tense and sleepless, in the bed that had so recently been her mother's. The room was locked, and there was a sturdy chair propped beneath the doorknob; but the terrible, consuming fear still snarled at the edges of Rachel's mind.

It was very late, but the raucous piano music and coarse laughter coming from downstairs showed no signs of waning. Worse, seductive feminine giggles and the tread of heavy boots sounded in the hallway, and bedsprings creaked constantly in the room next door.

Rachel was totally miserable. In fact, if she hadn't been mortally afraid of encountering a drunken, amorous lumberjack in the hallway or on the stairs, she would have scampered back to Griffin Fletcher's house and babbled whatever apologies were necessary.

She blushed hotly in the darkness. Why was it that his kiss was so fresh and clear in her mind, while his savage cruelty was fading? Why had her body been so drawn to his, even as her proud spirit was repelled?

Rachel allowed herself to imagine his hands touching her breasts and stomach, his hard, fierce frame pressing down on hers. Desperate, aching need rose in response.

Had Griffin Fletcher been there with her in that dark, haunted room, she would have surrendered to him willingly, even eagerly. Assuming he wanted her.

She turned, punching the goosedown pillows angrily. Damn him! Damn his condemnation and his insults!

He'd made his brutal opinions clear enough, and the raw desire she'd sensed in him stemmed from those false ideas, rather than any worthy, human feeling.

Tears slid down Rachel's cheeks as she closed her eyes, burrowed down in the bed, and let tomorrow's picnic absorb all her thoughts. Eventually she slept.

The brothel did not seem nearly so intimidating in the bright light of morning. The lumberjacks were apparently gone, the piano music was stilled, and the “girls” were asleep behind closed doors.

Rachel washed, put on the planned white silk blouse and black sateen skirt, and took special pains arranging her hair. She was humming when she walked purposefully into the tiny kitchen tucked away at the back of the first floor.