Hannah’s resolve faltered. Not even Mama’s stories about the size and bustle of Boston could have prepared her for the reality of the seaport town. Wide-eyed and rumpled from her countless days and nights of traveling, she stood on the covered depot platform, amid the jumbled fortress of her trunks and bags, trying to decide her next move.
All around her, pushing, hurrying people swirled and eddied, each one intent on his own particular business. As if caught in a whirlpool, Hannah steadied herself by leaning against a wooden post. The last time she’d seen this many bodies so packed together and agitated, they were cattle wearing the Lawless brand. And they’d been in a desperate stampede to a gully running with water. Now, that she knew how to handle.
With anxious knots kneading her stomach, Hannah threaded her gaze through the human stewpot, seeking the forest of tall buildings beyond the platform’s edge. She’d never seen the like, not even in the cities which had passed as blurs outside her compartment window. Assaulted now on all sides by Boston’s up-close, jarring noises and noxious smells, she knew a moment of real terror. How far did civilization stretch? And how would she ever find Cloister Point, the Wilton-Humes estate, in this jumble?
Stretching out in all directions were narrow, twisting streets, each of them jammed with traffic, foot and carriage. Rough wagons driven by shouting tradesmen vied with fancy carriages and omnibuses for space. Boys hawked newspapers. Women clutched at children’s hands and hurried them along. A fishmonger sang out, touting the day’s catch. Weary travelers hugged loved ones. And heightened Hannah’s awareness of how alone she was.
Talk of vengeance and of blood oaths seemed well and good when in the bosom of her family. But here—on a dark, early-October afternoon as a cold, gray rain began suddenly to slant down? Her self-imposed mission now seemed ill-conceived, if not downright dangerous.
Hannah pushed away from the post to squeeze her coin purse. She eyed the train she’d just deboarded. Not thirty feet away, it hunkered, snorting and steaming like a bull pawing the ground. She swallowed hard, thinking of her sum of money. She had more than enough for a ticket home. She could say she couldn’t find the Wilton-Humeses. Or she could say she’d confronted them and found they weren’t guilty.
A tiny voice in her head wailed in protest. She could also say, it accused, that her father’s outlaw blood did not flow in her veins. That her mother’s fierce love for her girls meant nothing. That the murderers could live out their days unpunished. That her blood oath with her sisters meant nothing.
Her conscience’s mocking words of cowardice shamed Hannah. And then steeled her spine. She focused on thoughts of Jacey and Glory having to shoulder responsibility for the ranch in her absence. Hannah shook her head. No, she wouldn’t let them down. She, unlike them, was surrounded by civilized folks, thousands of miles away from where the murders had occurred.
She was also close to the unsuspecting Wilton-Humeses. Who were probably dry and warm, all nestled in at the family estate at this very moment. Narrowing her eyes, giving herself over to the jolt of courage that raced her blood through her veins, Hannah vowed anew that she’d find them, that she’d—
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “May I be of some assistance?”
Hannah jerked around, her gloved hands flying to her chest, as if seeking reassurance that her heart still beat. The handsome, well-dressed man doffing his hat to her loomed bigger than some of the hills back home. Tall herself, she didn’t usually have to look up to meet a man’s gaze. But it was either that or talk to the silken scarf knotted at his throat.
“You startled me.” Hannah frowned up at him. And realized she couldn’t look away from his dark eyes.
Set in a clean-shaven face of wide mouth and hawkish nose, those piercing black eyes twinkled down at her. His smile intensified Hannah’s feelings of awkwardness. “I apologize. I simply meant to offer you my protection.”
“Your protection?” Like a shadow, belated wariness stole over her, reminding her of her particular circumstance—a young woman alone in a strange city. She took his measure in one sweeping glance. Broad and powerful. Moneyed and self-assured. Used to giving orders and having them carried out. “Why would you do that for the likes of me?”
A black-winged eyebrow beneath his gray top hat arched. “I suspect I’ll soon be asking myself that very same question. But you have only to look around you to see your danger.”
No one had to tell her of danger. She was looking at it. Hannah blinked, trying her hardest to turn away from his compelling eyes. She felt trapped. He was fascinating. Like a snake, a sudden intuition warned.
Jarred by that image, she backed up, wrenching her gaze from his to focus on individual faces in the crowd. Some ferret-faced creatures immediately looked away and melted into the crowd when she sighted on them. A glaze of fear thumped her heart. The gentleman was right. She had attracted the attention of the sort who pounced on weak or unwary prey.
She faced the man in front of her. He appeared straightforward and open, but did she dare trust his offer of protection? To her, his fancy clothes and manners were no guarantees of honorable intentions, despite his words. “You should know I have a gun.”
His burst of laughter startled her. “Perhaps I should inform you that I have one, also.”
Hannah reflexively cut her gaze down to his hip, where out West a gunbelt would be strapped. But his chesterfield overcoat hid any telltale sign of a weapon.
“Do you see anything down there to your liking?”
When his meaning soaked in, Hannah drew herself up to her full height, which put the top of her head at his chin, and met his bold stare. She pretended she couldn’t feel the hot flush on her otherwise cold cheeks, and dismissed him. “I thank you for your concern, mister, but I can make my own way.”
A slow grin stole over his mouth, revealing white, even teeth. “Just as I feared. There’s no one coming to meet you, is there?”
Heart-fluttering male or not, just who did this Jasper think he was? “I got myself this far. I think I can go a few more miles without getting myself killed.”
Apparently—judging by his fit of chuckling—every word that came out of her mouth tickled this tall Easterner. “I believe you. However, just to appease my gentleman’s heart, may I see you safely to a cab and on your way? I’d never forgive myself if tomorrow’s headline in the Daily Advertiser reported the discovery of your dead body in the harbor.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in pulling any words, do you?”
“No. Especially not when it would be reported that you were last seen alive in my company.” With that, he gestured over his shoulder, as if to signal someone to come to him. Hannah frowned, trying to peer around him. She hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone. Sure enough, he wasn’t. Four burly men leached from the crowd and stepped forward. Dressed in first-quality but unobtrusive clothing, the big men eyed her dispassionately while silently awaiting their orders. “Take the lady’s belongings to a reputable cab and then proceed on to Woodbridge Pond. I can handle this.”
Before Hannah could protest, her trunks and bags were whisked away. In much the same manner, so was she when the tall stranger stepped up and took her elbow. Not used to being handled by any man, Hannah stopped just short of an overt flinch when his large, gloved hand closed over her arm. But his warm, steady pressure—not too tight—reassured her somewhat.
Wordlessly, he carried her along with him, his long-legged stride forcing her to skip along beside him, or risk being dragged. Hannah figured she was crazy for letting this stranger take her away from the safety of the crowded station. But would anyone help her if she balked? She doubted it, watching the way the folks who’d buffeted her only moments ago now parted for him. Most folks took one look their way, did a double take, and then moved aside. A few men doffed their hats and mumbled greetings, which he returned with only a nod of his head.
Hannah risked a quick glance up at her escort. “From the way these folks are acting, you must be the biggest toad in the puddle. But I don’t believe I caught your name.”
Without slowing, without looking away from the line of waiting cabs and omnibuses at the curb, he finally deigned to say, “You didn’t catch my name because I didn’t throw it.”
His response lit the fuse on her Lawless temper. Hannah stopped in her tracks. “Look, mister, the way I see it, you’ve pushed yourself into my business. You’ve caused my belongings to be carried off. And I believe that’s your hand on my elbow. Now, I’d say all that entitles me to the courtesy of an introduction.”
His expression, as he listened to her, changed from displeasure to bemusement. It was a good thing for him that her mother had raised her to be a lady, or she’d have to kick his arrogant-Easterner shin. “What about me is so funny? Don’t people hereabouts speak their minds?”
“Yes, people hereabouts speak their minds. But not to call me a big toad.” Still, he released her elbow and stepped back, sketching a fancy bow in front of her. “Nevertheless, allow me to introduce myself. Mr. Slade Garrett, at your service and pleased to make your acquaintance.”
His name staggered her, sent her reeling back a step. Slade Garrett? The very name on the charred scrap of letterhead! Helplessly she stared at him. She’d stepped off the train and right into the enemy’s hands.
Either God was punishing her for seeking revenge, or the very devil himself was helping her enemies. Even though she hadn’t known who he was when she boarded the train in Kansas, the newspapers she’d read along the way were glutted with this man’s name. He was the recent heir to his father’s railroad stock—a huge share of stock. A controlling share of stock. And she’d ridden here on his trains.
Shock and fear and hateful anger constricted Hannah’s chest, making it impossible for her to drag air into her lungs. Clutching at her skirt, she realized, to her horror, that she was going to faint. For even now her vision darkened, narrowing tunnellike until it encompassed only Slade Garrett’s handsome, dark, and now diabolical face.
Unable to move, her limbs like pudding, she watched as he sobered and straightened up, reaching for her. The last thing she heard was his voice. “Are you feeling ill, miss? You look pale. Here, let me—”
* * *
The matched bays’ hooves clip-clopped over the cobbled streets. The steady patter of cold rain spiked against the elegant brougham’s roof as it pulled away from the depot. Inside, and seated in an uncomfortable cramp, Slade Garrett glared down at the unconscious girl in his arms and draped across his thighs. Grimacing, he shifted her weight as best he could. What the deuce had he been thinking to even approach her? Now look at this turn of events.
Twitching his nose and mouth around an irritating frill on the girl’s hat, Slade considered her green traveling costume. While stylish, it still announced her as not one of the first sort. Perhaps not even one of the second sort. His deprecating snort coalesced into a vaporish cloud. So now he was a Good Samaritan, rescuing lower-class girls. Totally unnecessary. The depot employed an adequate force to aid distressed or put-upon travelers. He’d seen to that detail himself.
So what was he doing here with her in his lap? He’d never done this sort of thing before. Well, what was he supposed to do when the girl fainted in his arms—leave her lying there in the pouring rain? He could already see tomorrow’s headlines, had he done such a despicable thing. And all he’d meant to do was see her to a carriage and on her way, just as he’d said. Damn his momentary chivalric outburst!
His thoughts darkening his humor further, Slade again hefted her weight on his lap. And stopped short, his grip on her tightening with the realization that she was well padded in all the right places. And resting on him in all the right places. Feeling his male urges stir, Slade raked his gaze over her form again, this time with the heated awareness of a healthy male. And liked what he saw. Too bad she was too provincial and outspoken to be to his liking, because he—
What the deuce? Slade scowled at the carriage’s opposite seat. To his liking? When he thought of a little country mouse in those terms, it was time to visit Francine at Madame Chenault’s. How long had it been? His answer was a sharp, burning cramp down his arm. Grimacing, telling himself he deserved this, he angled the girl up some so he could work out the knot.
Confound it, how long before she’d come to her senses? His conscience posed the same question of him. Slade returned his gaze to the girl and admitted what about her had caught his attention the moment he’d stepped out of the depot office. Lust. Pure and simple. No. Would that it were simple lust. But the truth was … the girl had captivated him as no woman ever had before. All he’d done was glance in her direction and then glance away. Only to have his attention dart right back to her.
But why? Why her? Holding her close now, he again concentrated on the warmth of her curves against his chest and lap. He stared into her face, right now so still and pale. It wasn’t any one feature, not her high forehead, her rich, dark and curling hair, her pert nose, or very kissable mouth, or even the fetching combination of them all that intrigued him. But intrigued he was. Much too intrigued for his—or her—good. Slade shook his head in disgust. Boston’s mothers were correct. Young ladies needed protection from him.
As if heeding his silent warning, his burden began to moan and flail about in his arms. When she cried out in waking confusion, Slade gladly slid her off his lap and sat her next to him on the narrow seat. He turned to face her, his hands on her arms, steadying her until she was fully awake.
But then his breath caught. Despite her disheveled clothing, her little black hat being askew atop her ruined chignon, and even with that blinking, unfocused expression on her face, she was in truth a most engaging woman. But, something more about her nagged at him. Something he couldn’t quite—
A blinding flash tore through him, leaving him openmouthed, as if words he couldn’t form needed to be said. When he almost had it, could almost name it … just as suddenly, it was gone, leaving him reaching out to her on a level not physical. Frowning, Slade shook his head and drew back, staring at her.
She chose that moment to turn her head toward him. The dilated pupils of her otherwise light eyes made them appear almost black in the carriage’s dim interior. “Where am I? What happened?”
“You went into a faint as we approached the cabs. Do you remember that?” Then, testing her awareness, he asked, “And do you perhaps remember your name?”
She stared blankly at him, then frowned to the point of screwing up her features. Slade’s eyebrows rose. Here came the tears. But instead, she closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead, rubbing it tiredly. “Yes. It’s Hannah.”
A good, working-class name. It suited her clothing, but not her delicate bone structure and well-modulated voice, despite her quaint speech. More intrigued by the moment, Slade heard himself repeating—stupidly enough, in his own opinion—“Hannah. That’s a nice name.”
Ignoring him, she leaned her head back against the padded wall and closed her eyes. Slade watched her, taking in the curve of her cheek, the set of her slender jaw, and her swanlike neck. Such a feminine ideal. A sudden prick of awareness—not like the first one, but more a sense of having seen this very profile before—stabbed at him. But that was impossible. Because if he’d seen her before, he never would’ve forgotten her.
When she opened her eyes and lowered her head, she turned to him. And turned on him. “You’re Slade Garrett.”
She made of his name a filthy slur. Momentarily taken aback, Slade could only frown. At that moment, the brougham jounced heavily, its careening motion sending them into each other’s arms. She clung reflexively to him for the barest second, but then pushed herself away. Every rigid line in her body shouted that his touch was repugnant to her.
Then, so be it. Slade crouched over to the opposite seat. Sitting with his shoulders firmly against the padded backing, his legs spread and his arms folded over his chest, he looked her up and down. Why had he thought her desirable? She was nothing more than a common girl. And an ungrateful one at that. Damning his earlier moment of male weakness that put him in her company, he spoke up. “You say my name with a lot of vinegar. Have I perhaps done you some great harm at one time or another?”
His words hung in the air between them, suspended by the brittle October air and her completely unexplainable look of hateful contempt. “That, sir, is something I intend to find out.”
Just who did this little country mouse think she was? “Find out what? Ahh, I see. You think I took certain liberties. I thought about it, but I assure you, I did not. I take my pleasure from the willing. And the conscious.”
Her eyes widened. She looked down in horror at her mussed bodice and her skirt twisted about her legs. Hastily setting herself to rights, she met his gaze with a naked but fleeting look of the purest vulnerability and injured innocence that he’d ever seen. It was gone within a second, replaced by an icy stare of insult taken.
Wondering if he’d imagined that first look, and feeling like a cad for purposely giving her the impression that she’d been mistreated, Slade nevertheless frowned right back at her. Only the brougham lurching to a stop broke the unwavering stare between them. With studied nonchalance, he turned to pull aside the leather curtain. They’d arrived at his brownstone.
He turned to Hannah. “You have no need for concern. Your purity is intact … I assume. And don’t be alarmed, but we’ve arrived at my residence. Since you were in a faint, my choices were either to leave you at the depot or bring you here until you were able to continue on.”
He paused, assessing her, wanting to rage at her for again looking so helpless, so injured. And for making him feel responsible. “I’m late for my afternoon appointment. A cab follows with your belongings. Perhaps I could hire the driver to take you on to … wherever it is you’re going?”
“No, you’ve done enough. Probably too much.” She gave another tug to her fitted bodice as if to underscore her meaning. “I can hire him myself.” With that, she gathered up her handbag and scooted forward on the seat, preparatory to getting out.
Slade surprised himself by putting his hand over hers on the door’s latch. “Wait.” She eyed him in a questioning but direct way that Boston’s finest young ladies never employed. Disconcerted, Slade realized he had no idea what he’d been about to say. He just knew that he didn’t want her to leave. “Rigby will get the door.”
Which he did at that exact moment, wrenching it open with a suddenness that flung the occupants together. The girl squawked and Slade cursed. Then he met her blue-green eyes, only inches from his. That shock of awareness coursed through him again. And she felt it, too. Why else did she draw in her breath and remain in his arms?
“Beg pardon, Mr. Garrett.” Ribgy’s shocked apology broke the moment. Slade pushed back, helping Hannah to regain her seat. Mustering a modicum of dignity, he turned to his openmouthed young coachman and spoke in a voice laden with denial that anything was out of the ordinary. “Well, don’t just stand there, Rigby. See the lady out.”
“Yessir.” The coachman, in a rain-soaked slicker and with a nose reddened from the cold, bobbed his head and held out his gloved hand to the lady. Slade watched her take Rigby’s hand and begin her descent. As he helped her out, Rigby again turned to him. “Will the lady be staying on, sir?”
Before Slade could even blink, the lady took matters into her own hands. “No, Rigby. The lady will be on her way.” Like a queen exiting her royal carriage, the country mouse named Hannah alit. Then, standing out in the slashing rain, she turned to peer back into the brougham. “Thank you for your help. I owe you that much.”
Slade eyed her silently, feeling an inexplicable sense of loss steal over him. Still, he managed to keep all emotion off his face as he tipped his hat to her. “The pleasure was all mine … by all accounts.”
* * *
There it is. Cloister Point. Filling Hannah’s vision, the vast Wilton-Humes estate nestled on a point of land in a privileged, outlying area of Boston. Staring out the hired cab’s window, she gathered her courage. The awful weather and foul traffic and rutted roads had all conspired to make of the journey a slogging, inching trek. But now, it was worth it. She supposed.
The white stone mansion, stately as a tall cake and big as a fort, sat back from the curving road and capped a low hillock. An iron fence girded the immaculate grounds. Barely taking a breath, refusing even to think, Hannah stared at her mother’s childhood home until her vision blurred. She sniffed, reaching up to wipe away a tear. Inside were her grandparents. And they hated her because she was her father’s child.
Defeated, she sat back from the window, slumping against the seat. Even though she no longer looked at the mansion, it burned in her vision as she stared straight ahead. The estate was beautiful, lavish even, but it struck her more as … indifferent in its very inaccessibility. She bit at her bottom lip. It wasn’t too late. She could still turn around and leave.
Hearing herself, and cursing her nagging fears, Hannah sat up straighter and raised her chin. She would not, could not go back on her promise to Mama and Papa or on her blood oath with Jacey and Glory. No more waffling. In only a few moments, she would face her kin for the first time. And they would know the wrath of a Lawless.
The cabriolet rocked under her. Caught unawares, Hannah clutched at the seat. Then she relaxed, realizing the motion was no more than the driver climbing off his box. Sure enough, the door opened, and the coachman’s bulbous-nosed face poked inside. Shoulders hunched against the wet cold, he informed her, “There don’t appear to be no one about, miss. D’ya want me to go an’ see before we get yer things down?”
With a sinking feeling, Hannah looked from him to the mansion, this time seeking particular details. Shuttered windows. No light shining from within. Had she come all this way for nothing? A flutter rippling through her belly, she refocused on the little man in front of her. “If you would, please.”
He bobbed his head and closed the door. Just as suddenly, he opened it again. “And who shall I say is calling? These Brahmins don’t take kindly to … visitors they ain’t expectin’.”
Hannah locked gazes with the man. Clearly he didn’t think she was worthy of gaining entrance through anything but the kitchen door. For the first time in her life, she uttered her middle name with a sense of using it to put someone in his place. “Tell them Miss Hannah … Wilton Lawless has arrived.”
The driver’s expression changed, became more deferential. He even dragged his cap off, leaving his balding head exposed to the elements. “Wilton”—he swallowed on the word—“Lawless? Sorry, miss. I’ll be gone only a moment.” With that, he swiped a hand over his wet scalp and quickly resettled his cap. One darting movement later, he rounded the cab and disappeared from sight.
Her heart thumping like a scared rabbit’s, Hannah waited, her gloved hand holding back the leather curtain over the window. The coachman reappeared almost immediately as he padded up the curving drive and then rounded a corner of the mansion, obviously going to a side door. With nothing to do but wait, Hannah steeled herself with a review of her plan.
She had to admit, it wasn’t much of one. Beyond getting herself here and insinuating herself into the Wilton-Humeses’ lives, she didn’t have structured intentions. But she did know she couldn’t blurt out her accusations and expect to get the truth. No, she would have to reside here, under false pretenses, in order to gather any evidence of their guilt or innocence.
And if they were responsible? What would she do then—go to the authorities? What could they do about two murders that occurred out in No Man’s Land—a territory bounded by no law agency’s jurisdiction? Would Boston officials investigate her accusations of Wilton-Humes treachery? She looked again at the mansion, and knew on whose side the law would fall—the Brahmins’. The coachman hadn’t confused her with that term. She’d often heard her mother refer to her family as Brahmins, a term bordering on affectionate sarcasm that identified those members of Boston’s highest social caste.
Seeing what and who she was up against, Hannah accepted that she would have no help in this town. She could not afford to trust anyone, and she would have to exact vengeance herself. But what form it would take, she had no idea. Could she kill someone in cold blood? She rubbed at her throat when the very idea constricted it. What had she gotten herself into?
Her attention quickened when she saw the coachman round the same corner again and, holding on to his cap, retrace his steps back to his cab. Gasping, out of breath, he told her, “Sorry … miss. Place is … locked up tight. I couldn’t raise a … soul.” His rapid exhalations puffed white in the cold air.
Hannah’d never considered that they simply wouldn’t be home. What now? What if they had several homes? They could be anywhere. How could she find out? Who would know? A strong, mocking face with piercing black eyes popped into her head. Aha. He’d know. She had evidence of that in her handbag. The letterhead with his name on it.
But did she dare face him again? She’d escaped him once with him knowing only her first name, one common enough not to arouse undue suspicion. Could she be so lucky a second time? It occurred to her that he could quietly have her killed, and no one in Boston would be the wiser. An ugly picture of her body floating in Boston Harbor—his own words—assailed her overworked imagination.
“Beg pardon, miss, but it’s a long drive back to Boston proper, and I’ve got a family to get home to. It’s gettin’ darker, and it ain’t gettin’ no drier, nor no warmer out here.”
Hannah’s vision cleared as she focused on the poor man in front of her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry. But please, just another moment.” Fraught with doubts, she kneaded the folds of her handbag, until her fingers traced the reassuring outline of her pistol. She suddenly wished she were back home, where Western justice was fast and simple. But she wasn’t home. And she’d have to play the hand she was dealt.
Forced into a corner by circumstances, Hannah came out fighting. She would be bold. She would take chances. The moment was here to engage the enemy, to stride right into his camp. To show Slade Garrett what it meant to have Lawless blood flowing through one’s veins. Hannah turned to the shivering driver. “Take me back to Mr. Garrett’s brownstone.”