Luck Be a Lady (26 page)

“Catherine. Shh. It's me.”

She was dreaming. That was O'Shea's voice. Maybe she had dreamed the whole thing, and she was safe in his bed at the House of Diamonds—

She managed to open her eyes. Saw the loathsome bare wall, the chair bolted to the floor.

She'd dreamed
him.

Her eyes fell shut. Tears came too easily. She felt . . . exhausted, hollowed out, heavy and . . . so dizzy. The world was falling away—

She was being lifted. She summoned her will, all the power that remained to her, and managed to hook her nails into skin, this time. To
claw.

“Bloody— Kitty!” His voice came at her ear now, urgent. “I am taking you out of here. Keep
quiet
.”

Features swam before her. Eyes rippling, crossing, a nose swimming by a mouth . . . She took a shallow breath and blinked, and the features reassembled.

His face.

He was here.

“You came,” she whispered.

He gathered her tighter, his hand cradling her skull, pushing her face into his shoulder. Wool, soft and fine. He smelled like horses. Like smoke and a cold night.

“Quiet,” he said, but she felt his hand stroke over her hair once and a great wave of relief moved through her, and she sobbed into his shoulder.

She was dizzy because he was carrying her. He was carrying her out of this prison, to safety.

She lost consciousness for a moment—or a minute, or several. When she regained awareness, he had ceased to walk; he grasped her tightly as he spoke in low tones to somebody else.

“All right,” he said, “there's a man in the entry hall. Do you know another way out?”

“Through the back,” came a cool feminine voice. Stella's. “But it leads past the guardroom. The front is our best chance.”

“
Our
best chance?”

“Yes, I'm coming with you. This place once seemed safer than the world outside. But clearly that has changed.”

O'Shea swore softly. “Lady, you've got me confused with someone else. I've got no time for—”

“Wait.” The words were so hard to shape. She was drooling, and could not care. “Let . . . her.”

Catherine felt him tense, the minute adjustments of his posture as he leaned to look into her face. She could not manage to keep her eyes open to meet his, but she managed to speak again. “Let her . . . come.” Stella had been kind. She was owed this.

She felt his hand frame her cheek, a brief firm pressure. Then he said, “Fine. Quietly. Johnson, you'll—”

“Got it. One clean shot.”

“Don't kill him,” Stella said. “Let me speak with him first.”

“Bloody—” O'Shea was squeezing her very tightly. She was coming fully awake, now, alert enough to register that his grip was iron hard. “Like hell I will.”

“You want his blood on your hands?” Stella asked. “Have you ever killed someone, sir?”

“I have,” he said flatly. “And I'll not hesitate to put a bullet through you, if you betray us.”

Catherine's eyes came open. Stella was staring at O'Shea, the wall sconce behind her shining through her dark blond hair, creating a frowsy halo around her pale, resolute face. “I invite you to shoot me,” she said. “I'm sure I wouldn't mind. But then you would have to deal with my brother, who would.” She turned on her heel and walked into the entry hall.

“Wait,” O'Shea snapped—not at Stella. Catherine caught sight of Johnson lowering his pistol, his mouth pressed into a furious line.

“She'll . . . keep her word,” Catherine whispered.

He glanced down at her. His expression briefly eased, the faintest smile ghosting over his mouth. “Hey.” He rubbed his thumb over her cheek and gently said, “Shut your eyes again, Kitty.” And then he looked back toward the entry hall. On a deep breath, he shifted her weight in his arms. She felt his hand make a fist at her back.

He was carrying a weapon. He intended now to use it.

A strange feeling swept through her. She closed her eyes, surrendering to this queer, curious peace. This sudden, intense certainty that all would be well.

His heart drummed beneath her ear. A solid, pounding beat. She felt enfolded. She felt . . .
protected.

For the first time in her life, here, in this awful place, she felt safe.

“All right.” Stella sounded breathless. “He's gone to the water closet. We've got five minutes, no more. Hurry, now.”

Catherine tightened her arms around O'Shea. Her husband. Who carried her now in long strides, one
hand on his weapon, the other holding her to him. They crossed the entry hall and exited into the cool night air.

She heard the whicker of horses, and smiled into his shoulder.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

S
ome noise woke Catherine from slumber. She opened her eyes. O'Shea sat on a chair drawn up beside her bed, his face grave, shadows beneath his beautiful eyes. He was watching her, and the moment she smiled at him, he leaned over to cup her face.

“How are you?” he asked.

She put her fists over her head in a long stretch, then yawned. “Much better. My head feels clearer now.” She glanced toward the drawn curtains. “What time is it?”

“Seven thirty, eight o'clock.”

“In the evening?” When he nodded, she pushed herself upright. They had arrived back at Diamonds after sunrise. It was very odd to have slept the entire day away. “Where is Stella?”

“Her brother came to fetch her.”

Concern pricked her. “He won't send her back, will he?”

O'Shea laughed. “From what he said? I'd wager he'd sooner blow that asylum to kingdom come. Didn't seem half bad, for a toff.”

“Oh.” As she relaxed again, his hand smoothed down her braid, tracing the path of her spine. She had a vague recollection of his hands at her nape, fumbling . . . She reached behind her for her plait, and laughed at the straggling mess she uncovered. “You're better at shuffling cards.”

“Hair's a sight trickier than cards.” He was smiling, too. “You seemed quite fed up with me, this morning. I thought you were going to give me a proper smack.”

She pulled an apologetic face. “I was so tired. I'm sorry, I hope I didn't—”

“Catherine.” He nudged her face toward his, meeting her eyes. “Stop.” He drew a hard breath. “It's I who must apologize. I should have foreseen that Everleigh would—”

“Don't.” She caught his hand, holding it hard against her cheek. Then, with a daring that she hadn't known she possessed, she kissed his fingers. “You came for me. Thank you.”

He sat back slowly, withdrawing his hand. A flicker of hurt moved through her. She frowned down at the counterpane, stroking the silk, feeling suddenly, oddly shy. That moment, in the asylum . . . the absolute certainty she had felt, the sense of elated conviction . . . She couldn't quite recall the nature of it. But it had centered on him. She was certain of it.

“There's a doctor outside,” he said quietly. “He said . . .” He paused, cleared his throat. “He said if you woke, you'd be in the clear. But just in case, I think he'll have a look at you. All right?”

She nodded, then watched him rise and cross to the door. He looked . . . travel worn. Dust on the cuffs of his trousers.

Why, he hadn't changed his clothing since their mad dash from Kenhurst. Had he sat by her bed the entire time?

The doctor entered. A slight, rabbit-faced man with a courtly manner and a faint stammer, he listened to her lungs, then looked into her eyes and asked her to follow his finger as he moved it around her field of vision. He tested her reflexes, and judged them satisfactory. Did her head hurt? No, but she was profoundly thirsty.

“Fluids,” he said decisively as he snapped his bag closed. “And rest. But as I said, she is well out of danger, Mr. O'Shea. She may have some lingering moments of confusion—depending on the dosage, opiates can be felt for several days thereafter. But I will be glad to proclaim her in fine health.”

Catherine wanted to protest that she felt quite clearheaded now. But as she lay back against the pillows, she found herself dreamily content to consider the pattern on the ceiling—only it was, after all, not a pattern, but the random stippling of shadows cast by the candlelight.

Still, it made for fine entertainment. It kept her quite ensorcelled until O'Shea returned, this time bearing a tray full of several bowls.

“Fluids,” he said in disgust as he retook his seat by the bed. “I told Thomas that you wanted fluids, and what do I get? French soups.”

She took a deep breath. A moment ago, she would have denied that she was hungry. But Thomas had a rare talent. The smell of something rich and savory awoke a beast in her stomach, which growled loudly enough to catch O'Shea's attention.

“Well, now,” he said, one dark eyebrow rising. “Seems my wife fancies a French broth.”

“Yes, she does.” She reached for the spoon, but he
tsked
and took it from her.

“Lie back,” he said, and carefully ladled soup into the spoon.

Perhaps she was dreaming again. “You're going to . . . feed me?”

She
certainly
was dreaming. In real life, O'Shea was incapable of blushing. “It's a fine counterpane,” he muttered. “And in your state, you're likely to spill.”

“Oh.” That made sense. She nestled happily into the pillows and opened her mouth. He carried the spoon to her lips, tipping carefully. Ah, but Thomas had outdone himself. The broth was light and perfectly seasoned, a medley of greens with the slight savor of a poultry base.

“Give him a raise,” she said once she'd swallowed.

He smiled. “Another?”

She nodded. But as she watched him spoon up another mouthful, that strange shyness came over her again. Had anybody ever fed her? Not since she was very young. There was a peculiar vulnerability in allowing him to fit the spoon to her lips; to feel his eyes on her, monitoring her so closely, waiting for her to swallow. It made her feel . . . fragile. Quite unlike herself.

It made her feel . . . loved.

But he didn't love her. Her brain was muzzy. She was inventing fantasies. Worse, she was persuading herself to believe them.

When he carried the spoon toward her again, she caught his wrist, gripping it as a way to trammel the panic that wanted to bubble up within her. She should tell him not to help her. She could do for herself; she always had done.

“What is it?” he asked gently.

She looked into his eyes, his beautiful dark face, which she had once imagined the product of the devil's own genius, designed to ensnare her. She'd been partly right. God help her. She was ensnared.

He tilted his head slightly. “Have you had enough?”

“No,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

She would blame this foolish contentment on the opiates. With any luck, she might not think clearly for days yet. A doctor had said so.

*    *   *

“Like hell you're going out.”

This belligerent declaration came from the doorway, which O'Shea was currently blocking. Catherine continued to wrestle with the buttons on her glove. She had fallen asleep beside him, but this morning, she had woken alone. He'd intended to leave without a word to her; that much was clear. “I'm feeling much better,” she said calmly. “Quite myself now. And I understand that there is an auction to attend. A
public
auction.”

He stepped into the room and pulled the door shut on a bang. “God as my witness, you're not going. You're going nowhere near your brother. Give me a week, and I'll make sure you have free run of this city. But until then—”

“You don't command me,” she said gently.

He leaned back against the door, pinning her in a fierce glare. What a contrast to the tender solicitousness he'd shown her yesterday! No doubt he was vexed that she'd found out about the land auction. Alas, he had forgotten to inform Johnson of his secrecy, and that man had popped by to ask Catherine a quick question about the manner in which a bid was signaled.

“I am going,” she said now, aiming for a calm, reasonable tone. “The plot is my design. Surely I deserve a taste of the victory. And yes,” she added as O'Shea scowled and opened his mouth to speak. “I know my brother will be there. Hasn't it occurred to you that that's part of my reason for attending?” To her own amazement, she felt curiously at peace with what Peter had done to her. At last, he had behaved in a manner that left no room for lingering doubts about his motives. He had revealed his true nature so plainly that she would never hope for better from him again. It was freeing, somehow, to be liberated from any lingering sense of familial obligation. He was her opponent, nothing more. “I want to see his face when he spies me. When he realizes he hasn't managed to cow me an inch. And I trust you to keep me safe,” she said more softly. “I won't feel a moment's unease, beside you.”

He frowned, slouching a little as he turned his beaver hat round and round, his beringed hands squeezing. “This isn't your battle to fight.”

She looked directly at him, letting the silence draw on a moment too long. “Isn't it?”

He loosed a long breath. “Catherine, I . . . need my head about me, today. And if you're there—”

“Stop.” She abandoned her gloves and crossed to him, taking his face in her hands. “Surely you have the discipline to resist my lures.” She went on tiptoe to kiss his lips, and felt his surprise in his momentary stillness.

Then he caught her by the waist and swung her around, setting her against the door as he took control of the kiss. His tongue plunged deep, and she opened her mouth for him, pulling him as hard against her as their bodies allowed.

It was as though she had touched a match to a fuse. His mouth ravaged hers, his hands moving feverishly down her body, smoothing hard down her ribs and waist and hips, palming the shape of her as though to persuade himself of her solidity, that she was here with him.

For a moment, his ravening intensity frightened her. There was no courtesy, no tentativeness, in the way he felt for her breast through the thick layers of her gown. He gave no warning, asked no permission, as he grabbed her skirts, hauled them upward past her knees, then thrust his hand beneath, reaching between her legs. He found the split in her drawers, delved unerringly through her folds, and cupped her hard as he kissed her more deeply yet. It was predatory. It was . . . overwhelming. She broke free to catch her breath in a gasp, and he seemed to sense her confusion; he grasped her chin and pulled her face around so he looked into her eyes as he stroked between her legs, his gaze adamant, bright and fierce, his mouth a grim, hard line.

She kept her gaze steady on his, lifted one hand to his cheek, bit back the gasp that his touches pulled from her, the groan of pleasure as his fingers breached her and penetrated, widening.

He leaned forward and licked her mouth. “Let me in,” he said in a low, fierce voice.

Yes.
She nodded—a brief, strained jerk of her head that drew a low noise from him, something between a groan and a snarl. He gathered her skirts in great wads, crushing the wool, shoving it away as with his other hand he unbuttoned his trousers and freed himself.

She caught her breath as she felt the swollen head of his member nudging against her. His hands dropped to her hips, grasped her hard as he entered her.

In silence, holding her in place against the door, he thrust into her, deep, steady strokes that made her head tip back; made her eyes roll and her lashes flutter shut. So many sensations, all of them suffused with this growing, building physical hunger—even the unyielding press of the door, cool against her bare upper arms, seemed sensual . . . the crush of clothing between them, the way it whispered . . . the heat of his mouth on her throat, his tongue stroking her . . . and below, this unyielding, rhythmic invasion . . .

He whispered something in her ear, garbled, unintelligible. Then he pushed down on her hips, forcing her to bend her knees the slightest fraction, and the new angle—

She moaned. He was hitting that spot now, somehow—every stroke brushed against it, teased and then tormented her; she felt herself swell, grow hotter and wetter and needier . . . He showed no signs of flagging; he seemed to go deeper, to hit something inside as well, and her thighs loosened; her knees gave way. He gripped her now to hold her on her feet as the pleasure broke through her, washed down the backs of her knees, prickled down her spine, her inner muscles contracting around him.

The noise he made burned her ears. He sank into her, trapping her against the door with the weight of his body, remaining there a long moment before he stepped back.

When he let go of her, she sagged. Would have fallen, had he not caught her again, lifted her, and swung her into a nearby chair.

Only minutes had passed. Or maybe not even a minute. She had no sense of time. She felt . . . boneless, as
she sat watching him. He leaned back against the door, his face dark as he studied her. His expression, paired with the rigid set of his shoulders, gradually made her frown. Made her cast her thoughts back.

She caught her breath. “You didn't . . . withdraw, did you?”

“No.”

“I'm sure . . .” She swallowed, bestirred herself to sit upright. “I'm sure nothing will come of it. There are couples, married couples who have lived together in a regular fashion for years, who still don't conceive—”

“And some that conceive on their wedding night,” he said curtly.

She stiffened. Was that anger in his voice? “You can't blame
me
for this.”