Mittman, Stephanie (12 page)

"Do
you think he'll be all right here?" she asked, gesturing toward the boy.
"Or should we put him up in one of the bedrooms?"

"Best
to leave him here. If I try to move him, his injuries will probably wake him
up. I think it's pretty wonderful of you to try to help him," he added,
not willing to allow the evening to end.

She
smiled sadly. "I hope Cabot won't mind."

"I'm
sure you'll make him see reason," Ash said, wondering how Cabot could
resist granting his wife anything she asked for. He stayed where he was seated,
his hands in his lap to hide the effects of their conversation.

"I
haven't yet, but I haven't given up trying," she said with a shrug.
Instead of leaving, as he'd expected, she knelt, picked up another nut from the
hand that rested upturned in his lap, and offered it to Liberty, all the while
worrying her bottom lip. He waited, staring at her mouth, sure she wanted to
say something more, but nothing was forthcoming.

Finally
she let go a ragged sigh and asked, "How do women get you to do what they
want, Ashford? I mean, when you've refused to see things their way, don't
understand what it is they need, how do they..." She covered her face with
her hands, but not before he saw the pink creep over her cheeks.

"They
look at me about like that," he said, tipping her chin up so that he could
look into those huge eyes of hers. "And sometimes—on very rare
occasions—that's enough."

She
stared back into his eyes, unblinking. If the warmth in them should ever be
meant for him, he would be a cinder at her feet. She struggled to give him a
smile. "Would that were always the case," she said softly. "I
guess I'd best get up to bed."

"Yes,"
he agreed, coming to his feet and allowing Liberty to pace across his shoulders
until he found the spot he wanted, before turning down the lamp.

Charlotte
rose and stood just beyond his reach by the doorway. She looked tired, sad.
What he'd said wrong was a mystery, but he had the urge to tell her how sorry
he was, nonetheless. Instead he just stroked her arm and steered her toward the
stairwell.

At
the landing she turned and whispered good-night. "And thank you for
helping with Davis. I think if you hadn't come in with Liberty when you did,
he'd have insisted on going back home."

He
nodded, brushing away her praise. He'd done nothing but show off his parrot,
while she had offered the boy her home, her expertise, and her protection. And
all without losing that soft, innocent vulnerability she strove so hard to
hide.

Just
outside Cabot's bedroom door she came to a stop and waited for him to pass,
smiling politely as he did. Three steps up the next flight he still hadn't
heard her open the door. He stopped and leaned over the railing just in time to
see her leave Cabot's door and enter the room next to it.

Except
now you share a bed,
he'd
said.

And
she hadn't answered, had she?

Many
had been the mornings he'd woken up with a small ear and long silky hair
resting on the pillow beside his head. This was the first time, though, Ash had
awakened to a long silky ear and a small hare just inches from his nose.
Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, when he'd finally stopped tossing
and turning in a vain attempt to smother notions better left unthought, he'd
heard the scratching under his bed again. The patter of rodent's claws forced
him out of the bed and left him eye-to-eye with a one-eared rabbit who clearly
thought that the high room was his. The rabbit's left rear leg impatiently
tapped the floor as he waited for Ash to clear out.

"No
dice," he'd told the rabbit, who'd eyed him suspiciously and then,
apparently deciding Ash was not worthy of his fear, had hopped up nimbly onto
the bed and wiggled his cotton-tailed behind between the covers and the pillow,
and shut his eyes.

Ash
had been willing to share his bed—provided the rabbit was willing to listen to
the troubles of a man with a clear path to hell by way of the gallows. He'd
spent the rest of the night regaling the rabbit with tales of the high seas and
low ports, neither of which appeared to impress the furry creature.

Long
about dawn he'd begun to question the bunny, figuring that a critter his size,
with a demonstrated penchant for hiding under beds, would know quite a bit
about what went on at Whittier Court.

Evidently,
the rabbit felt it was none of Ash's business, because he kept his mouth shut
regarding his mistress and her exploits.

Exploits?

What
did he think Charlotte was doing, other than tending a few miserable creatures
and brushing her hair where Cabot couldn't see her?

The
rabbit was right. It was none of his damn business.

But
that didn't stop him from wondering. And worrying.

And
so he'd talked himself blue while the rabbit had listened politely in the dark,
offering a reassuring paw on Ash's shoulder and a nuzzle to his neck just when
he needed it.

They
didn't share a bed, Cabot and his wife. What stupid, ridiculous assumptions Ash
had made over the years. Too young when Cabot's accident had happened for it to
have even occurred to him, Ash had never so much as wondered whether Cabot was
still able to function as a man. Hell, Cabot had been just eighteen when he'd
fallen from the roof.

Had
he ever known a woman intimately? Had he ever felt that surge of passion
filling his loins to bursting?

Had
he ever burst?

Ash
groaned and flipped over on the bed, startling the rabbit. "He should have
let me take my damn chances," he told the animal, who stared at him with
unblinking eyes, "instead of risking his life for me. I'd have come in
sooner or later, you know."

How
could he face Cabot now, now that he knew the full extent of what he'd done?
Horse
dung!
as Charlotte said.
Feces
whatever!
Merde!
Why hadn't
anyone ever told him?

"Damn!"
He threw back the covers and sat up on the side of the bed, his head in hands.
So he hadn't only cost his brother the use of his legs—which was hardly an
only,
though Cabot had seemed to rise above it—he'd cost him the use of what lay
between them.

You
share a bed....
Had
he really said that to his sister-in-law? As if it were any of his business! He
smacked his forehead, shook his head, and smacked it again. He should never
have come back home. The Hawaiian Islands were warm and sunny. The pineapples
and the women were both ripe for the picking.

But
no, he had to get his beans back to Oakland Harbor, the dung heap of San
Francisco Bay. And somehow manage to get himself arrested for murder.

Manslaughter,
he
corrected, reminding himself that the people in the fire he hadn't set weren't
people at all. Cabot was as good as ever at what he did, better maybe. But, of
course, now his brother had Charlotte's help.

Charlotte.
It kept coming back to Charlotte, with that wide, wonderful smile and those big
bright eyes. Jeez, she couldn't be more than twenty-three or twenty-four. What
was she doing married to someone as old as Cabot, who couldn't even...

He
really was disgusting. People didn't marry just to copulate. Marriage was a
merging of the heart, the mind—not just the body. Charlotte wasn't looking for
Cabot's physical perfection any more than Cabot was looking for hers.

Though
he could have found it if he'd just open his eyes.

The
problem was that, the way Ash saw it, Charlotte was a tumbler of cold, fresh
milk, condensation on the outside of the glass, maybe a drop or two still
clinging to the lip; and Cabot, well, Cabot was a fine cut-crystal goblet full
of well-aged wine.

He
wouldn't want a life without either of them, but they sure as heck didn't
belong on the same table!

Beside
him the rabbit nudged his thigh.

"Hungry?
Oh,
merde!"
Charlotte's word again, he thought, as he jumped up to
feed the bird, which hadn't been fed since the previous afternoon. He ran to
the dresser, only to find that the bird and all his paraphernalia were gone.

So
were the woman's stockings.

***

"I'm
telling you, Charlotte, that there is a nest in the eaves somewhere,"
Cabot was saying to her when Ashford joined them in the dining room. "I
heard a bird chirping half the night."

Ashford's
mouth opened, then closed again, and Charlotte swallowed hard, hoping he'd have
the sense to keep it that way. Not that she liked lying to Cabot, but it was
such a little lie, and for a good reason. Still...

"I'll
have a look outside," she said, wishing Cabot wouldn't put her in this position,
knowing she'd done it herself. Again.

"I
could look," Ashford offered. He seemed lost amid the disarray that passed
for breakfast at Whittier Court. Cabot was already done and wheeling back from
the table, Kathryn was just coming in from the kitchen, Davis in tow, and
Charlotte was hallway through her meal.

"Am
I late?" he asked.

Cabot
halted Arthur before the servant pushed him through the door. With his finger
waving first at Charlotte and then at Ash, he said, "Don't you go climbing
ladders, either of you. I have a gardener who gets paid to risk his neck."

She
bit her tongue. Had Ash not been there, she'd have asked Cabot if he believed
the gardener actually had a neck, or that it could indeed be broken. But she
was not about to goad him into a fight in front of his brother. In fact, she
didn't want to do much beyond stare when Ashford was around, nor could she seem
to.

"I'll
make sure no one gets hurt," Ashford said. His gaze was fixed on Cabot's
hands, which fidgeted uncharacteristically in his lap. "Can I get you
anything, Cab?"

"No
one is to climb anything," Cabot ordered, his face reddening. "Is
that understood? In all likelihood it was a cricket, and not a bird at
all."

Kathryn,
having made her way slowly across the dining room, patted the handle of Cabot's
wheelchair and kissed her younger son Ash on the cheek. Waiting while Arthur
pulled out the chair for her, she motioned for Davis to take the seat beside
her.

Cabot
studied the slight boy, who shifted his weight self-consciously under her husband's
scrutiny. Finally he pointed with his chin. "This him?"

Well,
no one had ever accused Cabot of being friendly. Charlotte forged ahead,
regardless.

"Davis,
may I present my husband, Mr. Cabot Whittier. Cabot, this is Davis Flannigan,
my newest client." The introduction was met by silence on both sides.

Finally
Cabot spoke. "Do you think this is the best time to take on a new case,
Charlotte? I would think it abundantly clear our priority has to be my
brother's situation right now, and our calendar was quite full before he landed
himself in hot coffee in the harbor."

Charlotte
looked at the boy. He was tall for his baby face, and reed slim. The swelling
on his eye had gone down just enough to reveal a matched set of sapphires
nestled in purple-and-brown sockets. His lip was stiff and in the corner caked
blood cracked when he grimaced.

"The
best time?" she repeated.
Well, I could wait until the boy is dead.
"I
think it's the
right
time," she corrected.

"Do
you expect that his father will simply allow him to take up residence here with
us?" he asked.

Charlotte
was about to answer when she caught sight of Van Gogh silently inching his way
through the dining-room doors. She looked to Ash for help, but the man was
still staring at Cabot's lap as if he was waiting for it to do something
extraordinary.

With
the rabbit hugging the wall and rounding the bend, she had no choice but to
jump to her feet. "I believe I left something upstairs," she said,
hurrying toward the doorway, where she tried to gently steer the rabbit in the
opposite direction with her feet. "If you'll excuse me for just a
moment."

She
was through the doorway in a second, scooping Van Gogh into her arms as
quickly. Behind her she could hear Kathryn offering some inane excuse for her
behavior. "Imagine coming to the table in her slippers," she said.
"I don't know where her head is some of the time."

Her
brother-in-law, nice as he was, was going to get her into a lot of trouble if
he didn't keep his door more tightly closed. With one hand holding up her
skirts, and the other securely tucking Van Gogh to her side, she hastened up
the two flights of stairs to deposit the rabbit in Ash's room.

Good
glory, but he made a mess of his sheets when he slept. Not that it was any of
her business, but his linens had more twists and turns than an interesting
case. She reminded herself that her brother-in-law's thrashings about in bed
were certainly none of her concern and forbade her active imagination from
running its natural course. Instead she concentrated on Van Gogh's antics long
enough to return the smile to her face. Swinging around to leave, her skirts
brushed something off the nightstand by the bed. Cursing the stupid bustle she
could never seem to account for, she stooped down and picked up a leather photo
case. Probably a photograph of Ash-ford's latest girl. Cabot had guessed blond,
so she opted for brunette, and opened the small booklet to see who was right.