Fletcher's Woman (24 page)

Again Molly's gaze was fixed on something far, far away, and her head was inclined to one side, as though she might be listening to a sound only her Celtic ears could hear. “No,” she agreed, at last. “No, Field, it isn't over.”

Restless, Field gulped the bracing tea Molly had given him
and surveyed the colorful shambles that was Griffin's study.
What a ridiculous sight we must be
, he thought.
Two sentinels drinking tea in the rubble. And the war is just beginning.

High overhead, two massive air fronts collided with a reverberating crash. Field listened soberly, his eyes on the shadowed ceiling.
Complete with cannon fire,
he remarked to himself.

•   •   •

As far as Rachel was concerned, the afternoon was no better than the morning had been; indeed, it was worse. The store's front windows were sheeted with rain, and the atmosphere inside was dreary.

Shortly before it was time to close the store, Mrs. Turnbull bustled in, her face a study in petulant rebellion, her voluminous poplin skirts drenched with rain and muddy at the hem. Her small eyes were like black beads, gleaming in the pasty corpulence of her face, as she hurled a suspicious glance in Rachel's direction and then flounced into the back room, where her husband was totaling receipts.

Rachel sighed. The woman hadn't looked any happier than she had an hour earlier, when she had come into the store for the express purpose of being introduced to “the new clerk who was taking Poor Marie's place.”

In the back room, the Turnbulls' voices rose and fell in a spate of polite bickering, and only the occasional phrase was distinct enough to understand. “I don't
care
what the Captain said—you've always had an eye for the pretty ones—what could
she
know about business?”

What indeed? Rachel closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the ribbon counter.

It was no surprise when Mr. Turnbull came out, mumbled that he was sorry she couldn't work for him anymore, and paid her the day's pay she'd earned.

Outside, the rainy wind bit into Rachel's flesh with icy teeth, even through her navy woolen cloak. Her despair ached in her throat, and stung behind her eyes. She would not have noticed the carriage at all if Captain Frazier hadn't gotten out of it and caught her arm as she passed.

“The life of a shop girl is not what you thought it was?” he asked, in a surprisingly gentle voice, as seconds later, Rachel sank into the carriage seat across from his.

Rachel did not dare to speak; if she did, she would burst into tears. She fixed her eyes on the tufted leather ceiling of the carriage instead and wished that she had never left Providence.

Unruffled, Douglas Frazier pressed a clean linen handkerchief into her hands. “There's no shame in crying, Rachel. It cleanses the soul, they say.”

Still, she did not speak. Words could not possibly contain all the misery she felt; once freed by even the simplest utterance, it would come in torrents.

Gracefully Douglas shifted his sizable frame from his side of the carriage to hers. His arm slid around her shoulders in a brotherly fashion, and his voice was warm, almost tender. “Rachel, Rachel,” he muttered. “Poor, brave little Rachel. When will you see that you can have everything—
everything—
if you'll only reach out for it!”

Everything. But not Griffin Fletcher, who personified that sweeping term. “How wrong you are,” she whispered. And then, as she had feared, her composure was shattered. She allowed Douglas Frazier to press her head to his shoulder and hold her close as she wept.

She was a mystery, this one. Douglas Frazier felt both rage and tenderness as she huddled against him, broken by the loss of a paltry, wretched position in a common shop.

Rachel dressed like a lady, and she certainly spoke like one. And yet she wandered in places like the Skid Road—after dark, no less—without an escort.

Was she, after all, nothing more than a trollop?

Douglas pried his handkerchief from her clenched hands and used it to dab at the ceaseless tears streaking down her face. If she was a tart, she was a devastatingly lovely one, even when she cried.

Yes, Douglas assured himself, Ramirez would want her—volatile nature, scandalous tendencies, and all. Her amethyst eyes and the sweet invitation of her body would bind the bargain.

The wheels of the carriage clattered on the plank street beneath them, and Rachel's sobs subsided a little, leaving sniffles in their wake. Was she a virgin, he wondered? Surely, she was.

Ramirez definitely wanted a virgin.

•   •   •

Inwardly Jonas cursed the rain as he strode, hatless, along the waterfront, flanked by McKay and one of the other men. Ahead were the shacks and sheds and tents of Skid Road.

Jonas did not expect to find Rachel here, not for a moment. But little transpired in Seattle that wasn't common knowledge
in these disreputable environs; vital information could often be had for the price of a drink.

Instinctively Jonas selected the saloon where he'd met and hired McKinnon, just over a week before—though it seemed like a century—as the starting point of his search. He knew, when he saw the slut McKinnon had been drinking with that first night, that the capricious element of luck was with him.

It was so easy that Jonas was almost disappointed; while he was desperate to find Rachel, he enjoyed a challenge, too. And he wasn't exactly pleased to hear that a violet-eyed young woman claiming to be McKinnon's daughter had come into the saloon alone, only the night before, asking questions.

“I know where she lives, too,” volunteered the whore, with a smug grin.

Jonas was annoyed, relieved, and stricken to know that Rachel hoped to find her father. “Where?” he snapped.

“What's it worth?” countered the prostitute.

Bitch
, Jonas thought, but he drew out his wallet and produced an impressive bill. “Tell me.”

She snatched the money from his fingers with an eagerness that, coupled with the stench of her, sickened Jonas on some primary, half-discerned level of awareness. “She's stayin' at Cunningham's, on Cedar Street.”

Jonas turned abruptly, almost colliding with McKay and the other man who stood gaping just inside the saloon doors. “Get me a buggy,” he ordered, in a tone that tightened their slack jaws and sent them scrambling to obey.

Stubby, eager fingers came to rest on Jonas's sleeve. “I could offer some entertainment while you wait,” drawled the prostitute he'd just paid.

Wrenching his arm free, Jonas inspected the fabric of his suit coat with revulsion. “I would rather eat slug stew,” he said. And then he strode outside, to wait in the misty drizzle.

The slattern howled an obscene word after him and followed that up with a shrill invective concerning fancy gents who don't know a real woman when they see one.

Jonas bore the tirade with uncharacteristic patience. There was only one woman he wanted; and she was “real,” all right—real as the rain that beaded in his hair and crept down his neck to saturate his collar.

McKay and his sidekick returned with a hired horse and buggy in record time and were plainly delighted when Jonas
freed them to spend the evening as they saw fit. They half-killed each other in their eagerness to get inside that stinking saloon.

As Jonas got into the buggy and took up the reins, he smiled. Perhaps the prostitute would ply her trade this evening after all.

Cedar Street was easy to find, and so was the Cunningham house. It was marked by a prominent sign, dangling from one limb of a blossoming cherry tree.

Jonas drew the buggy to a halt behind a carriage as impressive as the one he'd left behind in Providence. The presence of such a vehicle disturbed him, though he couldn't have said why; but the sensation was only momentary, and he had forgotten it by the time he'd abandoned his horse and buggy and sprinted up the pine-board walk.

He turned the bell knob briskly, and clasped his hands behind his back, wondering how he would bear even the briefest delay.

But the luck of the day was holding. When the door opened, Rachel herself was standing there, staring at him with puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

Jonas's hands ached for the feel of her, but he knew better than to betray the true depths of his passion before the time came. His voice was deceptively light and more than a little mischievous. “Hello, Urchin. The picnic was marvelous; you should have stayed.”

Rachel's throat worked for a moment, and beguiling shame darkened her lavender eyes, deepening the worrisome shadows beneath them. Then, unbelievably, she cried out softly and flung her arms around Jonas's neck.

If there had ever been any doubt that she held him captive, it was dispelled in that instant. Jonas's emotions churned within him as he drew her close and held her.

Presently, she fell away and drew Jonas into the house with both hands. Her splendid chin quivered in the half-light of the hallway. “Oh, Jonas,” she whispered, “Will you forgive me for abandoning you like that? It was thoughtless. . . .”

Jonas cupped her chin in a hand he hoped was more steady than his voice. “Forgiven. And why have you been crying?”

The answer came in a surprising rush of soft words and sniffles. She had found a job, only to lose it again the same day. She despaired of ever finding her father, and she wasn't sure she should have come to Seattle at all.

Jonas listened, his eyes gentle on her wan face, but something
inside him seethed all the while. At the core of her misery was Griffin Fletcher; she bore the mark of him on her face and along every enchanting curve of her body.

If Griffin hadn't possessed her, it wasn't because she hadn't wanted him.

Purposely, Jonas sustained the light, undemanding tone he sensed was vital. “Wash your face, Urchin, and change your dress. We'll have supper at the Seattle Hotel and make plans for tomorrow.”

The uncertainty in her face was maddening. “Hotel?”

Deliberately, Jonas smiled. “In the
restaurant,
Urchin—not the bridal suite.”

A smile flashed in her eyes and brought the faintest color to her too-pale cheeks. “I'll be ready in a few minutes. In the meantime, please come in and meet Miss Cunningham and Captain Frazier.”

Captain Frazier?
The name struck Jonas with a spinning, gut-jarring impact, thrusting all thoughts of Griffin Fletcher from his mind.
Good God
, he thought, his smile aching on his face.
It can't be
.

But it was. Inside Miss Cunningham's prim parlor, his massive frame at ease before a crackling fire, was Douglas Frazier himself. It was all Jonas could do to keep from thrusting Rachel behind him, ordering her to run.

“Douglas,” he said instead, with a cordial nod.

The sea blue eyes flashed with recognition, and the parody of a smile played beneath the familiar red-gold mustache. “Jonas,” the captain marveled, rising from the flimsy chair beside the fireplace.

Rachel dispensed with an obviously unnecessary introduction and looked puzzled. “You know each other?”

“Oh, indeed,” smiled the captain.

Jonas gave her a slight push, rasping, “Change—we'll be late.”

For once, Rachel obeyed, leaving Douglas Frazier and Jonas Wilkes to square off in a primitive, wordless confrontation.

Jonas swallowed the bile rising in his throat and let the rythmic
tick-tock
of the clock on the mantle lead him through the silence.

Finally Frazier spoke. “So you're the unfeeling bastard who broke that young girl's heart,” he said affably enough.

The words compounded Jonas's suspicions about Rachel
and Griffin, but he was careful not to let the inevitable reaction show. “She's mine, Frazier. I plan to marry her.”

Frazier raised an auburn eyebrow. “Do you?” he asked, skeptically. “That surprises me, Jonas, knowing your illustrious history as I do.”

Jonas closed his eyes. Why hadn't he seen the
China Drifter
riding at anchor on the bay, among the other ships? He swallowed again and met Frazier's even gaze. “And knowing yours, Douglas, I'm warning you—don't get any ideas.”

Frazier laughed, though there was a certain wariness in his bearing. “She would bring double the usual price,” he said.

Jonas's voice was a harsh, rasping rumble. “How much?”

The captain appeared to deliberate. “Well, that depends, since it's you I'm dealing with.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not she's a virgin. My people will beat any offer you make if she is.”

Jonas shivered inwardly, but he knew that he appeared as calm and detached as Frazier. At least, he hoped he did. The lie—and he prayed it
was
a lie—came easily to his lips. “Better luck next time, Frazier. She's not as innocent as she looks.”

Frazier was watching him closely. “I don't believe you, Wilkes. In any case, it's something my people can prove or disprove easily enough.”

Jonas felt sick. “
How much?”
he repeated.

The captain named a staggering sum.

“You'll have my draft in the morning,” replied Jonas, just as Rachel swept into the room like a fresh breeze. “Is it a bargain?”

Frazier smiled fondly. “It's a bargain.”

Jonas grasped Rachel's arm and hustled her out of that house at such a brisk pace that she stumbled beside him, barely able to keep pace.

“What on earth did you buy from Captain Frazier?” she asked, wide-eyed, as Jonas helped her into his waiting buggy and then climbed in beside her to take the reins.

His smile felt as though it had been tacked to his face. “Something I want very much. Now—what would you like for dinner?”

•   •   •

In spite of the dismal events of the day and the curious sensation that she was coming down with something dreadful,
Rachel had a fine time that evening. She hardly touched the magnificent dinner of fresh cod, green peas, and rice that Jonas bought for her, but she did enjoy the new experience of watching a traveling theater troupe grope through a production of
Hamlet
at the Frye Opera House.