Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (10 page)

Behind her, her assailant screamed.

Catherine whipped around, and froze, stunned.

A knife protruded from her former captor’s eye. Shrieking in tortured agony, the villain dropped to the ground, convulsing.

Involuntarily, Catherine stepped away, pressing up against the cold brick wall. She tore her eyes from the terrible sight and looked over at Marcus.

The iciness she saw in his gaze stopped her cold.

Behind Marcus, the burly, brown-clothed man slowly stood, a pistol raised in his hand.

“Behind you!” Catherine screamed, as she flung her bag straight at the attacker. With the broken brick lending it weight, the wool-netted reticule went hurling through the air. The missile slammed into the man’s forehead with astounding accuracy.

The brute toppled backwards.

His pistol discharged in the air and a deafening blast rang out.

A noise cracked above Catherine’s head.

She looked up.

Then all went black.

V
oices slithered into Catherine’s consciousness, but she shoved them away. It hurt too much to hear, to think, even to breathe. Her head ached so badly she felt as if someone had hacked it through with a woodcutter’s axe. With each pulsing of her heartbeat, her head exploded in shards of agony. She willed her body to still, her heartbeat to stop.

She gritted her teeth, fighting the nausea that roiled in her belly. It was worse than the throbbing. Inhaling deeply, she struggled for her equilibrium. There was nothing but the pain.

“—paid the keeper—”

“—don’t leave the rooms—”

It was a man’s gruff voice that sounded like trumpets roaring in her ears.
Quiet!

“—the foolish chit saved my life.”

That got her attention. Memory surfaced. Marcus. The brutes. The alleyway.

Girding herself, she opened her eyes. Golden candle
light filled her vision so brightly it was like staring straight at the blinding sun. She bit back a gasp from the pain and closed her eyes.

“Did the message get to my father?” It was Marcus’s deep rumbling voice couched in a whisper.

“Yes, sir.” The gruff man.

“And was he pacified?”

“Well enough for the present.”

“Good.”

Pushing away the pain, Catherine opened one eye, barely a slit. She was in a bedroom, one she’d never seen before. She lay in a black four-poster bed with a crimson coverlet matching the long red drapes that were drawn, shrouding the room in darkness. Brown wood paneling covered the walls and the far white door was closed. A fire burned in the white-manteled hearth, but Catherine turned her eyes away, for the pain of the light.

Slowly, her eyes adjusted as she stared at shadows, then she peered over to her left.

In the golden light of a candelabrum, Marcus stood before a mirror, his large hands clenching the tarnished gilded frame. Her breath caught; he was practically naked like some marble statue of a brazen Greek god.

She froze, careful not to make a sound. She felt like an interloper, never dreaming that she’d have the opportunity to glimpse the sight before her. Moreover, she didn’t know if she’d ever see anything so exquisite again.

Catherine soaked in the hard angles, sweeping planes and flowing splendor of his beauty. His dark hair was mussed, falling like a black curtain over his broad shoulders. His muscles were stretched taut as he gripped the frame, obviously in pain. She wondered if those muscles were as hard as they appeared. Would his skin be warm to
the touch? She swallowed, feeling something tighten deep inside her.

Her gaze hungrily devoured his buttery skin. The bulging corded muscles that rippled down his back in creamy waves. The canal running through the muscles, trailing downward to the thin, almost translucent scrap of white material that covered the twin globes of his muscular buttocks. The line of shadow between his buttocks could easily be seen through the shamefully thin fabric.

Involuntarily her lips parted, seeking more air.

She forced her gaze upward. A slash of blood marred the creamy skin of his side, dripping onto the white material. So he’d been cut in the tussle; it could have been so much worse. Vague lines and marks could barely be seen in the candlelight, indicating that this was not the first injury he’d suffered.

“Be quick about it, will you, Tam,” Marcus’s voice was a harsh whisper, but it seemed as loud as horses’ hooves trampling in her ears.

The lanky hooked-nose fellow approached, a needle and thread in his sinewy hands. Catherine suddenly realized his intention and she swallowed, fighting a rush of nausea. But she was fascinated and couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her heart began to hammer, pounding through her aching head.

Marcus’s brawny legs were spread wide and his stance tense as his man set the needle to flesh. Marcus hissed, but made no other sound.

It took every ounce of Catherine’s willpower to keep from retching.

The lanky man moved, blocking her view. She bit back a relieved sigh. Still, Catherine grieved to have lost the view. Although she’d never admit as much to a living soul,
seeing Marcus Dunn’s naked flesh was one of the most titillating experiences of her lifetime.

“Just need to knot it, sir,” the man muttered. “There. You’ll be right as rain, sir.”

The man stepped aside. The creamy white flesh drew Catherine’s eyes like a feline to milk. Marcus’s injury was a mass of red just above the slope of his lower back…that swept into that tight round derriere.

Her gaze scanned those luscious buttocks, delighting in the landscape of his hard curves. Deep inside Catherine’s womanly core, she felt a heat, a tightening, a yearning for something she’d never known she’d wanted before. It was unsettling, like an imbalance within her. One that ached with need.

“Thank you, Tam.” Marcus turned.

Golden candlelight washed over his glorious torso, lighting his chest in intimate detail. Catherine bit her lip, entranced by the expanse of undulating muscle with a spattering of dark curls splayed across.

Catherine felt her nipples stiffen as if under the spell of Marcus’s flesh. The tips pushed into the scratchy wool, making her yearn to shift restlessly beneath the blankets.

Dark fluff trailed from Marcus’s chest down his trunk to that paltry shred of clothing covering his privates. A sudden ache swelled deep inside of Catherine as her eyes skated over that bulging white cloth. Her eyes drifted downward, to his powerful muscled thighs coated in a dark fuzz—

What?

Catherine’s mouth dropped open, as the realization dawned on her. There wasn’t a scratch on either of his strapping thighs! No bandage, no mar, no injury of any kind! Why, the lying—

“Knave!” she screamed, launching up from the bed.

Searing pain cleaved her head in two. She saw stars. Clasping her hands to her head, she tried to press her aching skull together, but the pain rolled on and on and on. Her stomach lurched and her vision blurred.

Hands compelled her sideways and held her shoulders while she vomited into a chamber pot. Her eyes stung as tears squeezed out the corners with every agonizing heave. Her face ached and her head exploded while she choked up everything she’d eaten in the last day until there was nothing left to give. Gasping for air as if she’d almost drowned, Catherine fell back onto the pillow, her eyes sealed. A layer of sweat coated her entire body and yet she was chilled.

Gentle hands set a cold, damp cloth on her forehead. She heard whimpering and realized that it was coming from her. She gritted her teeth and stopped the pitiful noise.

Another cold, damp cloth was laid on her chest, in the gap between her breasts, and another on the soles of her feet. Then two heavy woolen blankets were wrapped around her.

Miraculously, the pain eased.

It was such a relief Catherine wanted to weep. Distantly she realized that she was naked, but she couldn’t think about that now. All she could focus on was the joy of the pain having been lessened.

Slowly the world came back into focus.

The mattress beside her sank with weight. The scent of sandalwood identified her “nurse”. Fury and exhaustion warred within her. She wanted to kick him, shout at him, and at the same time she was too tired even to roll over.

“Feeling any better, Cat?” Marcus murmured softly.

She cracked open one eye and even that felt like a Herculean effort.

The candles had been extinguished, and the only light came from the dying embers of the fire. Marcus now wore a long burgundy dressing gown with golden cuffs and collar.

Catherine ignored the stab of disappointment that he’d dressed.

“You lied.” Her voice was a rasp.

“Frequently. But with no ill intention.”

“Every lie…is malicious.”

He reached toward her and removed the now warm cloth. Dropping it into a bowl of water, he squeezed it and reset it on her forehead. It felt so good, she had to close her eyes.

“Rest now, Cat.”

“You’re…a…” She tried to think of something appropriately terrible but her mind was like pottage. “…knave.”

Cat lost the fight and surrendered to the darkness.

“I’m glad to see you back to your old self,” Marcus murmured, so relieved he felt weak. He was almost giddy that she’d regained consciousness so quickly and was feeling herself enough to chastise him.

If anything happened to Cat because of him…

Pushing away the dreadful thought, Marcus reached over and smoothed her velvety hair. When he’d imagined her golden tresses splayed on his pillow it was not with bloodied bandages wrapped around them. He had wanted her in his bed, but not like this. Never like this. Dark circles banked her eyes, and her porcelain skin was red and molten from her vomiting. Marcus traced his fingers lightly over her forehead, smoothing the lines. Her face relaxed even more. Her breathing evened with slumber, as small puffs escaped her pink bowed lips.

She’d grown the heart of a lioness in the years since he’d known her. Blossoming from timid wallflower to
protective mother bear. Even going so far as to storm into a street fight…to accomplish what? Had she gone in to…
save him?
The idea was absurd.

Yes, she’d saved him, but it was instinct, pure and simple, it had to be. She didn’t trust him, said so at every turn. She’d probably thought that he was mixed up with the men and had wanted to stop them. The notion of the righteous Cat storming into a conspiracy to stop it made much more sense. Yet, in the back of his mind, the prospect of Cat watching out for him lingered, and the thought was not displeasing.

Since his return, Marcus had seen how hard she worked for the orphanage, how much his father relied on her and how protective she was of everyone she loved. Deep down, he realized that he was a bit envious of the protectiveness his father elicited from Cat. He wouldn’t mind someone caring after him with such dedication…

What was he saying?

He shifted uneasily on the bed. He was used to being on his own. A lone wolf hunting its prey. It was better that way, actually. Then he didn’t have to watch out for someone else, didn’t have to suffer an Achilles’ heel. If he cared, then he was vulnerable. Alone, he avoided being exposed to manipulation or the threat of betrayal…

“You couldn’t have known, sir,” Tam muttered from over his shoulder.

Marcus started, almost having forgotten that the sergeant was there. Although he was bald as a doorknob, Marcus suspected that Tam was not much past thirty-five. It was hard to tell given his weathered skin with crinkles around his eyes, mouth and traversing his forehead in waves. He was tall, lanky and had a hooked nose so crooked some of the men called him “popper.” But not when he was within earshot.

Tam was tough, having served in the ranks for as long as Marcus could remember, and moving up to become sergeant three years before. What Marcus liked about the man was that he was creative and had a mind of his own. He was not a sheep to be led to slaughter as sometimes happened to the ranks with certain of the ludicrous decisions of the officers. Tam chased the golden chalice of victory as steadfastly as any other, but did so while looking out for his men and his arse. That’s why he was such a good man to have at one’s back.

“An’ her face was lost in that bloody bonnet, no wonder you didn’t recognize her,” Tam continued.

“Oh, I saw her, Tam,” Marcus countered, recalling the glance he’d spared her. “But I dismissed her as a non-threat. I should have suspected she’d do something, especially after our interview yesterday.”

“Was she always this foolhardy?”

Slowly, Marcus shook his head. “I hadn’t thought so, but perhaps I just didn’t see it before. I might have misjudged her quietness as timidity, her small stature as weakness.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know…”

A knock banged on the door. Tam shot him a glance and stepped behind the doorframe. A club appeared in his hand.

Marcus stood, grabbing for his sword. He ignored the tinge he felt in his side and readied.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Your father.”

Marcus would know that deep, disapproving tone anywhere. He nodded and Tam unlatched the door

With his typically economic movements, Uriah Dunn stepped inside. His face was somber as his eyes darted to the bed. His stern features hardened to granite.

G
irding himself for his father’s harsh judgment, Marcus set his sword aside, careful not to place it anywhere near the sleeping Catherine. He motioned to Tam. After peering down each hallway, the good sergeant discreetly slipped outside and closed the bedroom door.

Marcus stepped behind him, set the latch and turned.

Dunn’s penetrating blue gaze met Marcus’s and it took all of Marcus’s self-control not to look away. “Sir, I never intended—”

“Why did you have to drag Catherine into it?” Dunn barked.

“I didn’t drag her into—”

“Then why is she lying there?” His father motioned to the bed where Cat lay. “With her head wrapped in bloodied bandages?”

“She followed me—”

“You’re a trained soldier, for heaven’s sake! A spy!”

“Lower your voice!” Marcus growled.

Dunn’s lips dipped into a disapproving scowl, but thankfully he stopped yelling.

Tossing his hat and cane onto the empty chair by the hearth, his father moved to stand by the bed.

“As I said in my message, she’ll be fine.” Marcus stepped to the other side, putting Catherine between them. “I took a gash, if it makes you feel any better.”

Dunn’s scowl deepened. “Of course it doesn’t.”

“Can you enlighten me as to why Cat was following me, in a costume, no less?”

“Costume?”

Marcus jerked his chin over to the gray-and-white pile of clothing in the far corner. “A servant’s uniform, obviously not hers.”

“Ah.” Dunn scratched his grizzled chin. “I’d heard that a friend of the staff’s had run off. But she was a portly woman. How did Cat get it to fit?”

“A line of cord. Do you know what she was planning?”

“Nay. I thought her at a circulating library.”

“Which one?”

“I didn’t ask. It’s rare enough that she asks to go, I was just glad that she wanted to.”

“And you didn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course not.” Dunn tilted his head. “Why are you interrogating me, Marcus? There is no fault in our quarter.”

Marcus understood that “our” included Cat but not him. “I’m just trying to understand what madness inspired her to follow me as she did.”

“I made it quite clear that I would not suffer any more of her arguments about you. Apparently she decided to take steps on her own.”

Marcus shook his head. “Why is Cat so dead against me?”

“She probably fears you—”

“Bollocks.” At the censorious look on his father’s face, he added, “Pardon, but Cat doesn’t seem afraid of much.” He recalled how she fought the thugs in the alleyway and couldn’t help the rush of admiration that surged through him. “The brassy chit saved my life.”

“What?” Dunn grabbed the bedpost, as if his knees wouldn’t hold him.

“Sir!” Marcus rushed over and caught his father in his arms.

“I’m all right,” his father chided, gruffly. “Just taken off guard. I’m fine. Really.”

Despite his protestations, Marcus eased his father into the armchair by the fire and poured him a brandy. Marcus did not like how his father’s hand shook when he lifted the glass or the greenish pallor of his skin. Thankfully after a moment and a few sips of brandy, the color returned to his cheeks and some of the usual righteous fire banked his gaze.

After pouring a drink for himself, Marcus dragged another chair across from his father’s and sat facing the door.

“Tell me what happened,” Dunn commanded.

Marcus sipped his brandy. It was good tipple, but not nearly as fine as his usual fare. Since returning to London, Marcus had given up on his trading enterprise. His hands were full enough as it was. “I’d been marked—”

“Marked?”

“Someone was following me. I needed to find out who. So I walked alone down an empty alleyway—”

“Inviting trouble.”

Marcus shrugged. “How else to expose a trap but by triggering the snare?”

“How many men were there?”

“Three,” Marcus lied. No need to unsettle the man further.

Dunn grimaced. “A bit perilous, don’t you think?”

“I’ve faced worse odds.”

At the look of discomfort in his father’s gaze, Marcus assured, “I’m well trained. They were amateurs. Ruffians.”

“But you hadn’t counted on Catherine.”

Marcus blew out a breath of air. “No. She added a certain…
ambiguity
to the mix.”

“But you’re all right?” Dunn’s gaze traveled over his torso.

Marcus motioned to his side. “Just a scratch.”

Dunn straightened. “Why aren’t you clothed, Marcus? You’re alone in a bedchamber with an unmarried young lady and you don’t even have the decency to dress. Have you no thought for Catherine’s reputation?”

Marcus needed no further reassurance that his father was completely recovered from his little spell. “Do you want to learn what happened or not?”

“Of course I do,” Dunn grumbled. “I just wish you’d consider some of the larger implications of your actions. I know that you said that Catherine shouldn’t travel, but her reputation requires that you remove yourself at once and that she be cared for by women. I will send along two of the girls—”

Marcus shook his head. “This is a male-only establishment. They don’t even allow maids. Tam and I were lucky to sneak her in here as it was. And that was only after wrapping her in my coat.”

“But how, then, do you suggest…?”

“I will take care of her and ensure that no one ever finds out that Cat was here.”

“You? You’re no nursemaid, Marcus.”

“Who do you think took care of Mother those last months when you were off to your many meetings?”

“I know her fever lingered, but Mrs. Nagel—”

“Mrs. Nagel had to supervise the children; she couldn’t give Mother the care she needed. Besides, when one is dying nothing compares to having your flesh and blood beside you.”

Dunn blinked. His mouth opened, then closed. “I didn’t know…”

Marcus bit back a retort; it was neither the time nor the place for opening old wounds. Moreover, he didn’t have enough left in him this evening to tussle with his father.

His father’s gaze met his, sincere. “I’m sorry, Marcus. I’d had no idea.”

Marcus shrugged, but somehow he felt a bit better that his father now knew. Mayhap someday Uriah Dunn would take ownership of all the pain he’d caused by his absences. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it.”

His father nodded. “Of course. So what happened at the ambush today?”

“I had a pistol at my back, in close range, and Cat tossed her reticule at the man.”

Dunn lifted his brow. “Her reticule?”

“Yes, a flimsy netted thing, but she’d placed a broken brick inside.”

“Ah. Like a sling.” His father nodded admiringly. “Quick thinking.”

“She’s a smart woman, I’ll grant you that.” Marcus looked over at her on the bed. “Too smart for her own good, it seems. The bullet missed us both, but knocked down a brick from the building. It landed on her clever head.”

Dunn scratched his ear. “So she must have known she was proceeding into trouble.”

“That’s the part I can’t understand.” Marcus straightened in the chair and leaned forward, careful not to stretch his injury. “I have to assume that she waited for me out
side the boardinghouse and followed me.” He shook his head, disbelieving. “But that means that she charged into that alleyway knowing full well that I was there with those men. What could she have been thinking?”

“Knowing Catherine and how suspicious she’s been since your return, I’d say that she was trying to find out more about why you are here.”

“Charging into an alley, alone, with five obvious ruffians and me? A bit brash, even for her, don’t you think?”

“Not if she thought that you were in trouble. And I thought you said it was three men?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Marcus brushed aside. “And I can’t believe that that slip of a girl planned to take on six men.”

“Five. You’re one of the good ones, remember?”

An unfamiliar hopefulness stirred in his chest, but he pushed it away. “I find it all too implausible to believe.”

Dunn shrugged, sipping from his glass. “At the very least she would do it on my account.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Undoubtedly. Catherine appreciates something you never have, Marcus.” His father’s eyes met his and something deep inside Marcus twisted. “I would be devastated if you were hurt. Or dead.”

At this pronouncement, funereal silence filled the room.

Uncomfortable, Marcus tore his gaze away, staring at the fire.

Dunn leaned forward. “You are my lifeblood, Marcus. My flesh and blood. The thought of something untoward happening to you…”

Warning calls resounded in Marcus’s head; he couldn’t handle his father becoming sentimental. It was…too much.

“Well, nothing is going to happen to me.” Marcus knew his tone shouldn’t be so brusque, but he couldn’t help himself. The next thing he knew his father would want to embrace him. Marcus almost shuddered, imagining it more awkward than one of General Quartermein’s battlefield dinner parties. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Catherine, obviously, did not think so.” Dunn rubbed his hand over his eyes, appearing tired. His gaze moved to the bed and filled with guilt. “I suppose I should have tried to take precautions with Catherine. Given her more to do, distracted her somehow. But I’ve just been so wretchedly busy…”

Marcus’s interest sparked. “But you haven’t been with the board…”

“Nay, another matter.” His father looked away. “A private matter of some sensitivity.”

Marcus heard the reproach; Dunn would not share the details with his wayward son.

“Mayhap someday I will be able to tell you about it,” Dunn added, making Marcus feel a bit better.

“I might have done a better job handling her, as well,” Marcus admitted. Thinking back, he wondered if he’d have been better off telling her the truth about his reasons for returning to London. But the notion was so antithetical to his very existence, it hadn’t really seemed an option. Still, he should have thought of something. “You were right in one regard, sir. Cat’s dogged.”

His father’s features seemed to soften, like melting clay. “Cat’s dogged?” He appeared to be trying not to smile. “Cat’s dogged?”

Unbidden, Marcus’s lips quirked. Scratching his cheek, he shook his head. “That was very bad.”

Dunn nodded. “Almost as bad as the door is a-jar.”

Marcus suddenly recalled arguing with his father for at least a half hour about the impossibility of a door being a jar. He’d been about six years of age, and even then, very determined. Dunn had patiently showed him the dictionary. Marcus had read the definition. Then he’d come back the next day and decorated his father’s door.

“See?” Marcus had told his father, waving to his artwork. “
Now
, the door can be a jar.” He’d painted a large white jam jar in the middle of his father’s oversized study door.

Marcus recalled it so clearly, he could almost hear his father’s booming laughter. It had been so glorious, an exquisite echoing sound that had reverberated deep in Marcus’s soul. He’d almost forgotten that memory, until this moment.

Dunn sighed, smiling. “That was one lesson I will never forget.”

“You’d said that I taught you that children have a logic all their own, often more rational than any adult’s.”

“Very true. And it has helped me enormously over the years.”

“You kept that painting up for a long time,” Marcus murmured, recalling the pride he’d felt every time he’d passed that decorated door.

“Until the paint was so scratched off you could hardly see it.”

Marcus nodded, almost surprised by the sweetness of the memory. Their eyes met and for a moment, something connected between them. Marcus felt a sudden rush of affection for his father, but it was so foreign, so opposite to how he thought of his father, he shifted uncomfortably, looking away.

Cat groaned.

Marcus jumped from his chair and approached the bed. “I think that we’re disturbing her.”

Dunn rose. “It’s time for me to take my leave, anyway. Without Catherine at the orphanage I will have my hands full.”

Marcus hadn’t realized. “I’m sorry about all of this, sir.” He knew that he was apologizing for more than just inconveniencing his father, but he didn’t want to examine that aspect too closely.

“Some things are out of our control, Marcus. In this instance, Catherine’s determination.” He stiffened. “I will have to tell the staff something; they will be curious about Catherine’s sudden absence.”

“Mayhap she is visiting a sick friend,” Marcus supplied.

Dunn nodded. “That will do, I suppose.” Setting his hat on his head, his father retrieved the cane. “Take good care of her, Marcus. She’s a very special lady.”

“I’m beginning to comprehend that, sir.”