Thief of Hearts (5 page)

Brodie studied him. O'Dunne was pleasant-looking when he smiled, with mild brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, but so far Brodie hadn't seen him do much smiling. He'd guess he was about thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old. Like most sailors, Brodie distrusted lawyers, but he had to admit O'Dunne seemed decent enough. Being upright and humorless was probably a good thing in a lawyer, anyway. "So," he said conversationally. "You still haven't told me about my 'wife.' What's she like?"

O'Dunne went stiff. "You'll meet Mrs. Balfour soon enough. She's a lady, and that's all you need to know."

"Uh-oh." He didn't like the sound of that. "Bit of a mudfish, eh?" Frosty silence. Brodie sighed and slid down lower on his backbone. "Just my luck. One month of freedom left, two at the most, and I must spend it with a bleedin' shovelhead."

"Listen to me," O'Dunne bristled, sitting up on one elbow, "you'll keep a civil tongue where Mrs. Balfour is concerned, is that clear? If you so much as
look
at her in a way I don't fancy, you'll find yourself back in Bristol so fast your brain will spin."

Brodie rubbed his beard, brows raised curiously. "That so?"

"Yes, that's so. You'll be watched all the time; there'll never be any occasion for you to be alone with her. And I want your promise right now that you'll treat her with nothing but respect and courtesy at all times."

"Seems like you want a powerful lot of promises out of me, Mr. O'Dunne." He was thinking of the one he'd had to make before they would let him out of prison, that he wouldn't try to escape; that at the end of this bizarre affair he would go docilely back to gaol and rot there for the rest of his life.

"Well?"

"What's in it for me?" Brodie asked, feeling perverse. "You and I know that whoever killed Nick will likely have another go, this time at me. So you're not really much of a savior, are you? Fact is, you're more like the devil leading me down another sinkhole to hell."

"Your promise," he repeated, scowling.

Brodie crushed his cigarette out against the wall, leaving an ash-blackened circle. "Treat her with respect? Sure. My solemn oath. Shouldn't be that hard, the lady being such a hedgehog."

O'Dunne's lips tightened with anger. "I've seen you before, you know."

Brodie looked across at him, interested. "When?"

"A year ago. The Liverpool docks."

He went still. "That was you with Nick?" He kept his voice studiously neutral. The lawyer nodded. Brodie turned away and stared straight ahead.

He recalled that day, the last he'd seen his brother alive, as clearly as if it were this morning. Nick had looked so good. Silk shirt, fancy suit, tie with a pearl stickpin in it. Even carried a goddamn walking stick. When he'd seen him, a simple, flooding gladness had washed over Brodie. Without a thought for his tattered seaman's clothes, he'd walked right up to him and stuck out his hand.

Nick had gone white at first, then red. He'd started to smile, to this day Brodie would swear he'd started to smile and then his face had closed up. "Sir, I don't know you," he'd murmured, in a voice Brodie would never forget. And then he'd walked away. The man with him had cast two curious looks back before they'd turned a corner and disappeared.

Brodie unclenched his hands and took a long, deep breath. The pain he felt because Nick was dead was worse than anything, worse than his own agony while he'd waited in prison to die. It was as if
he
had been killed, as if
he
were the one who'd been knifed to death in the dead of night, before the horrified eyes of the woman he'd just married, just made love to. He sat up straight, stiff with violent, pent-up emotion, and squeezed his eyes shut, one hand massaging his forehead. "Did he ever tell you who I was?"

O'Dunne hesitated, then said, "Yes."

Relief coursed through him. So Nick had told one person he had a brother. He hadn't known until this moment how important that was to him. "Were you good friends?"

Again O'Dunne pondered his answer. "Yes."

"What did he say about me?"

"He said you'd swindled your father out of his life savings and disappeared when you were fourteen years old."

All the air went out of him; he felt as if he'd been kicked in the chest. "Son of a… " He scrubbed his face with his hand and let out a short, bitter laugh. Then he turned his face to the wall, blind to everything, and didn't speak again.

After a time, he didn't know how long, he heard O'Dunne's slow, even breathing; when he looked over, he saw that the lawyer was asleep.

Moving quietly, he stood up. God, it felt good to stretch. The ship rolled; he absorbed the motion with expert effortlessness, knees flexed, body swaying. The thud of his boots was silent beneath the noise of wind and waves. He opened the door and stepped outside.

Besides the galley, there were four cabins below, he saw quickly. All he wanted was a walk, a chance to stretch his cramped legs. He'd eaten and slept a good deal in the two days since his release from prison, but he still felt a strange core of weakness, as if something deep inside hadn't healed yet. He was halfway to the ladder, his only thought to pace a few times between it and his cabin, when he heard the clang of footsteps, descending. Damn! A sailor's gumboots appeared in the companionway. The cabin door beside him was closed. Was it locked? No. He pushed it open, passed inside, and closed it behind him.

And halted, back against the door, frozen motionless. By the light of one oil lantern he saw a girl, lying in a bunk along the cabin's right wall. For a long time he just stared, almost in disbelief, because the sight was so incongruous, he could count on the fingers of one hand the times he'd sailed a ship with a woman aboard. Then the truth dawned on him: This girl was Nick's wife. Nick's widow.

He went closer, holding the slack chain in his hands to silence it. She was small, hardly bigger than a child. Was she sick? Her face was almost as white as the pillow. She had reddish hair, or maybe light brown, the light was too dim to see. He remembered her name was Anna. Her delicate eyelids fluttered, and for a second he thought she would wake. But she didn't, and he realized she was dreaming.

He should go, it was wrong to watch her like this; her face looked naked, too exposed, he ought to leave her alone. A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth, and the sweetness of it pushed back his resolve. How pretty she was. He stared, entranced, until her smile faded and a little cry of fear sounded deep in her throat. Nothing after that, no expression except the fragile flickering of her lashes, but he worried for her. He went nearer, hovered over her.
Don't be afraid, Anna
, he thought.

She was walking in afield of lilies. The sun shone bright and hot, but the lilies were cool, icy-white, and luscious. Nicholas was holding her hand, walking beside her. She felt lit up inside with happiness. He stopped once and turned her in his arms, kissing her with reverence and passion. Then they set off again across the cool white lilies
.

From all around them came a sound that frightened her. There was nothing to see but distance, but from somewhere a harsh braying whine was growing louder, scaring her, making her skin feel vulnerable. She wanted Nicholas to stop and turn around, to run back with her across the pale lily field, but he wouldn't stop. She saw a rent in the clouds over their heads, and the nose of a knife blade slicing through. The howling whine was like a saw, deafening now as the blade descended
.

She opened her mouth to scream. A low-pitched, fierce, commanding sound issued from her throat, louder than the whine, louder than anything she'd ever heard. The very air turned to sound and swirled with strong, vibrant color. Her lungs felt empty and purified. Without surprise, she watched the blade turn to silver smoke and dissolve among the clouds. Nicholas came toward her, his eyes shining with gratitude and love
.

She awoke, and he was there. Kneeling beside her, his eyes so intent, his face so dear. She reached up to him with both arms, and he came to her. Something between a moan and a sob trembled in her throat as she clung to him, holding herself against him.
Nicholas. Oh, my dear
. Her heart ached with the fullness of her love. She tightened her arms around him, shuddering with relief and gladness, and lifted her mouth for his kiss.

Afterward, Brodie would think back to that moment, that instant in time when he should have let her go, and he would remember why it had been impossible. It wasn't because she was lovely, or because her body under her thin gown was supple and delicate and exciting, or because the fragrance of her soft hair beguiled him. What made him return her yearning embrace and kiss her with such tenderness was simply that she wanted it so. Her need was a tangible thing, urgent and poignant. Like her arms it encircled him, bound him to her. He could not resist it.

Anna opened her eyes when the kiss was over, and something prickled across her skin, an impossible intimation. Her mouth tried to form a word. "You… " came out in a whisper, all but inaudible. His shining eyes were all she could see clearly in the lamplight. His hands moved restlessly on her shoulders and she heard a clink of metal again, but this was the first time the sound registered. Something cold and heavy lay across her breasts. He straightened slowly and took his hands away. She saw the chain.

There was a breathless moment while Brodie's soul felt naked and he waited for her to revile him. Her lips moved uncertainly and he closed his eyes, lost to everything except regret. Then something rebellious stirred in him, and before she could speak he pressed her back against the pillow and kissed her again.

Bewilderment paralyzed her. Wide-eyed, she let him do it, while her mind struggled and flailed. This wasn't, this couldn't be... "Anna," he murmured against her lips. His voice!

The pressure of her palms against his chest was light, ambiguous; Brodie ignored it. His tongue found the delicate line where her lips met and probed it with slow and exquisite gentleness. She quivered in his arms, poised on the baffling edge between outrage and acceptance. Then her mouth opened, and he rejoiced. Their tongues touched in a shy greeting. They forgot to breathe; their hearts thudded heavily in unison. He nibbled at her top lip and pulled it into his mouth, tasting her velvet warmth. Now their tongues circled more boldly, sliding sensuously, craftily holding still. He stroked his fingers along her soft throat and she made a purring sound that vibrated against his hand, making him smile. The dreamlike intimacy of the kiss grew more urgent. She was shaking, but no more so than he. The sensitive tips of her breasts pressed against his coarse linen shirt, melted into him. She sighed a long sigh into his mouth, holding his head, tasting him.

Brodie broke the kiss and sat up, surveying what he would need to do to get her undressed quickly. He had no scruples left, and his conscience was a functionless instrument buried under the crushing weight of need. He brought his hands to the button at the high neck of her gown, and her odd, amber-colored eyes, dreamy before, hardened with sudden intensity. Her head turned sideways on the pillow, restless and uncertain.

His hands froze. "You're hurt," he said wonderingly. "You've hurt your head."

The profound sympathy in his voice brought tears to her eyes. "Yes, I'm... but I'm all right now," she whispered. Her first words to him.

Her first words. She knew it as surely as she knew anything. He wasn't Nicholas.

Brodie saw the dreadful knowledge in her eyes. Before he could speak and say what..., the door burst open and smashed against the bulkhead behind them. "'E's 'ere!" shouted Billy Flowers, his enormous body dwarfing the cabin. Brodie stood up slowly. O'Dunne and Dietz jostled each other through the doorway. Dietz muttered a harsh order and Flowers advanced.

The first blow of the giant fist caught Brodie on the cheekbone and hurled him against the opposite wall. He raised his arms to ward off the second, noting with relief that his shoulder wasn't broken, and that the cockney's hand was tangled harmlessly in the chain between his wrists. Bringing his hands together to make a club, Brodie swung out with all his strength. His fists connected with Billy's sternum, and he had the satisfaction of seeing him turn purple and stop breathing. But his victory was short. There was nowhere to go, the wall was at his back, the stolid giant blocked his way forward. A chain was an ugly weapon, but it was the only one he had. He swung it.

Flowers caught it like a lobbed tennis ball. One savage jerk dropped Brodie to his knees; one backhanded blow across the face made his ears ring. Or was that Anna screaming?

"Stop him! For God's sake" O'Dunne was beside himself.

"That's enough!" barked Dietz, and like a well-trained attack dog Billy subsided. "Are you all right, Mrs. Balfour? Did this man hurt you?"

Anna didn't hear the question. Clutching the sheet to her bosom, trembling, intent, she stared at Brodie. She knew she was close to fainting, but she had to hear his answer. "Who are you?" she got out in a feeble whisper.

Brodie stumbled to his feet, ignoring Billy's feral warning growl. The chain rattled when he wiped blood from his mouth and pushed the hair out of his face. It was the accusation in her eyes that triggered the defensiveness, that and his own guilty conscience. He made her a shallow, mocking bow. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Balfour. My name's John Brodie. I'm Nick's twin." The shock in her eyes burst through the thin wall of his defiance like a fist.

Flowers gripped his arm with unexpected gentleness. He moved toward the door at a laggard's pace, unwilling to go. He turned back in the threshold to see her, one last time. O'Dunne hovered over her, patting and murmuring, blocking his view. But he thought he could hear her crying.