Chapter Twelve

Dorothea paused at the door of Sybil’s shop to shake the wet from her coat before going in. Blustery rain held Boston in its grip, and night had fallen with preternatural speed. Barely five o’clock and it looked like midnight, the streets shining where the lamplight hit them.

The weather reminded Dorothea of home, where storms tended to blow across Frenchman Bay to strike the little house that faced the ocean so bravely, the one where she’d grown up.

A sharp pang of homesickness gripped her. She’d received not one but two letters from home today, the first from her mother and the other from Jo Grier, and she ached to be there with them, drinking tea and talking the way they used to.

That couldn’t happen, not right now. Besides, a third missive had been delivered to the Guardian office—a folded paper bearing nothing but a drawing of a hare, a tea cup, and the numeral five.

She knew what that meant by now. She should—she saw it often enough.

Two weeks had passed, and Sybil’s had become her and O’Hare’s accepted meeting place. It had also become her port in a storm of some magnitude—the series about Hare O’Hare progressed wonderfully. Montgomery Winton had decided to run her stories twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and couldn’t be more pleased with how the papers continued to sell.

Everyone in the city read the stories Dorothea penned. The Wintons—father and son—might not appreciate the content; they might denounce it as soft, slanted, even sensationalized. But Montgomery Winton printed the stories anyway, word for word just as Dorothea penned them, because the people of Boston, of all classes, simply couldn’t get enough. They read for various reasons, some to feed a hunger, some to denounce her and the struggle upon which she shone a light. But they read, and on the two days a week her stories ran, circulation more than tripled.

And Dorothea teetered on the edge of being discovered. Everyone in Boston speculated over the identity of D. R. Sinclair. Forays had been made into the Guardian office, where most everyone now guessed. A number of people in O’Hare’s world knew the truth, as well.

It wouldn’t remain secret much longer.

She walked into the warmth of the shop and came face to face with Sybil. The woman frequently seemed to materialize from thin air, and this afternoon, with the gloom gathering outside and the candles on the tables flickering, she presented an aspect that raised all Dorothea’s ancestral superstitions.

“Oh, Sybil, you startled me.”

Sybil narrowed her eyes and leaned close. A wave of patchouli assaulted Dorothea’s senses.

“You,” Sybil said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I dreamed of you last night.”

Oh! thought Dorothea, and what does one say to such a pronouncement?

Sybil gave her no time to decide. “A dream it was from the Other World. You are to be the one.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Is our mutual friend here? He sent for me.”

“And so you come, you run to him. Are you ready to give your heart?”

Funny she should ask that. Jo’s letter had hinted at something similar. Jo often had presentiments about things, and out of the blue she’d asked if Dorothea had been seeing anyone.

If so, she wrote, better hang onto him.

“You must let me do a reading for you,” Sybil whispered spectrally. “The leaves. Or better yet, the cards.”

Dorothea experienced what her father, from Scotland, called the cauld grue. Straight from the Highlands, he’d told her stories of the seers there and how no one dared doubt their veracity.

“Perhaps another time.”

“Soon.” Sybil nodded. “Soon.” She gestured to the door at the back of the near-empty tearoom. “Go in.”

Dorothea did, with alacrity. Usually when she let herself into the back parlor she found Hare lounging at the table behind his cup of tea, tawny eyes half hooded. Now she caught him on his feet and pacing, his face alight with excitement.

“Dora,” he greeted her. “Glorious lass!”

“What is it? What’s happened?” He made her breathless when she saw him like this, burning like copper flame. She hurried to the table and set down her bag.

He treated her to a smile that rendered her weak in the knees, came around the table, and swept her up in his arms.

Oh, and it felt sublime! How many times while together had she longed to feel his arms around her? How often had she wanted, while they sat talking, to lean across the table and press her lips to his cheek, brush against the copper stubble that sprouted there—or better yet, against his lips? Not wise, she knew, to cross that line. Besides, she wasn’t that kind of girl. Was she?

Now he took the choice to resist out of her hands, pulled her hard against him and swung her around, feet off the floor.

Her hat fell off, and she went dizzy—not from the motion.

She gazed into his face. “Hare?”

He returned her glance, the golden eyes almost too bright at close quarters, his warmth a tangible force. His gaze devoured her face, caressing every feature before he said, “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I don’t.”

“Only worked a miracle with that clever pen of yours.” He caught her fingers in his, raised them to his lips, and kissed them. Heat blossomed throughout Dorothea, kicking her in the belly like a draft horse.

“What—!”

“Terry Gallagher has a job. Someone who read your story—a man with a delivery business—went out of his way to locate him and offer him the place. And it’s a good place, too, not some piecemeal job on the docks where he’ll get dismissed at a whim, but one with security. And the best part?” He squeezed her tighter. “The man—his employer—is non-Irish. That means, my girl, you’re reaching the hearts and minds of everyone in this city. So you see, it’s all down to you.”

“Oh, my!” Dorothea squeaked out. “That’s just the very best news!”

“Terry came to tell me. Beside himself with happiness he was. He said Deirdre wept when she heard.”

Tears flooded Dorothea’s eyes also. “So we’re making a difference?”

“You can bet we are. Here now. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He set her down and gently thumbed a tear from her cheek. Still within the circle of his arms, Dorothea froze, caught by his gaze which changed abruptly from euphoria to something so intense it pulled at her soul.

“Beautiful lass,” he murmured, and she felt the warm brush of his lips on her other cheek, kissing rather than brushing the tears away. She stirred then, sliding her hands up his chest and around his neck as she leaned into him. Effortlessly, instinctively, they moved together so their lips met in a first soft, fleeting contact before clinging tight.

Desire flared and sensation tore through her, blossoming up from a place deep inside. He tasted warm and wild and sweet; he felt like a part of her long missing. This felt like coming home.

His lips wooed hers, persuaded them apart and sought admittance to all she was. She parted for him so she might taste more, and he poured into her, first his tongue stroking her tongue and the insides of her lips and cheeks in caress after caress, then his essence. She felt his strength, his compassion, and the hunger burgeoning from his heart.

Her knees went weak, and she hung onto him, knowing she never, never wanted to let go.

But he broke the kiss with a lingering contact of lips on lips and set her from him gently. Instead of moving away from her, he touched his forehead to hers; the thick, copper lashes swept down to cover his eyes.

“I’ll not apologize for that, though I suppose I should. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time I saw you on the waterfront.”

“Yes.” Dorothea, filled with the delightful flavor of him, strong like Irish whiskey, licked her lips. “But—but probably not a line we should cross.”

“Crossed now.” Still he didn’t release her; instead his arms tightened. “What to do about it?”

What, indeed? Dorothea knew what she wanted to do, and it shocked her. Gently bred women of good family didn’t throw themselves at men, even men who triggered desire and oozed charm to this extent.

Yet all she could imagine right now was kissing him again, setting her hands roving down from his shoulders inside his shirt, fusing with the wonderful warmth he exuded, giving herself to him.

Unwise. Very unwise.

She gazed into his face earnestly. “What do you want to do?”

His lashes swept back up. “Only you would ask me such a question, Dora Sinclair. Honest to the bone, you are.”

“There’s no sense being any other way.”

“True. And in all honesty, it would be madness for us to become involved…romantically.”

Dorothea’s heart plummeted. But she said, “I suppose you’re right.” Then why didn’t he leave go of her?

“I value you as a friend. I value what we’re accomplishing together for the likes of Terry Gallagher.”

“As do I.”

“I wouldn’t want to muck that up. And romantic involvements—well, they frequently end badly.”

“Do they?”

“All too often. And one thing I know, Dorothea Sinclair—I’m not good enough for the likes of you.”

She stiffened in indignation on his behalf. “Why do you say that?”

His gaze caressed her face. “Just look at you: clever and brim full of talent, as well as beautiful—so beautiful. You deserve a man who can fulfill your dreams, treat you as you’ve a right to expect.”

“And who might that be?” she returned, her heart in her eyes.

“A man of learning, of some means—one who can provide you a fine home and a life of comfort. Children—” He faltered over that last word, and his eyes heated. “I am none of those things, lass.”

“Shouldn’t I have leave to decide what I deserve?”

“No. You’re too likely to choose with your heart and not your head. You don’t know me—”

“I don’t?” Her brows flew up. “Sir, am I not your personal biographer? I know more about you than anyone in this city. After four articles together…”

“And two to go.”

“And two to go, how can you say I don’t know you? Hare O’Hare, I’ve looked into your heart.”

“That’s just it, though, Dora. It’s not even my real name. You know of me only what I’ve told you.”

“And what I’ve felt. You mention my dreams…”

She’d had dreams, yes: marriage some day at an indistinct time in the future to a shadowy figure, perhaps a professor-type gentleman with whom she might share the joys of reading and conversation. Eventually she wanted a family too, lively as the one back home. In her mind—deep down—warmth and family were synonymous with home.

None of that fit this man. And as she now saw, her vision of a husband had allowed little enough for love. What if the love came first, swept her off her feet, made her throw caution to the winds?

What if life sent her something she’d never imagined, this hunger uniting two hearts?

“My dreams,” she told Hare slowly and decidedly, “are things that come to me in the night. This—you—are reality.”

“Now, lass…”

“Best not to try and tell me what to do—or how to feel. It just makes me stubborn. That’s one of my faults. You’ve already made acquaintance with some of the others—such as talking too much. But I’ve sterling qualities as well, like my determination. And my loyalty. Once I decide on something—someone—I’m true to the end.”

“I don’t doubt it. But please, please, lass, don’t decide on me.”

How could she tell him it was already too late? Her heart had chosen, and her desire followed. He might be the last person on earth she should be with. That would change nothing.

He sighed, and she felt it pass through him.

“Don’t do this, Dora. Please don’t break your heart over me.”

She stepped away from him. “We shall see, shan’t we? Meanwhile, we’ve two more articles to write.”