“It happened so fast. There was nothing we could do.”
“Poor thing. To be trampled like that.”
“Never had a chance. Just fell right under their hooves.”
Slade heard the voices, understood the words, but not their significance to him. He opened his eyes, blinked at the bright sun overhead, at the wavering, distorted faces bent over him, and his head lolled to the side. He swallowed and closed his eyes. World spinning. Can’t … remember. Got to get … Hannah.
“Here now, make room. Mr. Garrett’s coming around.”
That was Hammonds’s voice. Slade opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground, surrounded by a crowd of strangers. When hands reached under his shoulders to sit him up, Slade looked up to see Jones behind him. What was going on? What had happened? Other hands brushed him off, patted him consolingly. He turned his head, surprised that he could control it, and saw Mrs. Stanley on her knees beside him. Tears streamed down her face. Why?
“Get me up, Jones.” Was that his voice? It must have been, because Jones again put his hands under Slade’s shoulders, pulling him up to a wobbly stand. Slade leaned against the man until he could gain his equilibrium. Just as suddenly, he remembered it all. The horses. Hannah. The screaming. He turned to Jones. “Take me to Hannah.”
As Jones nodded and put a steadying hand on Slade’s arm, Mrs. Stanley broke into a fresh round of tears and mumbled about the poor, young missus and so much blood. Hammonds shushed her with a sharp noise and then stepped in front of the two men. “This way, sir. We carried her bod—her into the house. Follow me. I’ll move these street types out of the way.” With that, he went ahead, yelling and clearing a path.
Slade stared after the man. Her body? Is that what he almost said? With his mind shying away from that harsh truth, Slade simply followed in his butler’s wake. Slade had Jones stop when they reached the street. Feeling stronger now, he pulled away from the silent guard, who immediately stepped back, his hands crossed in front of him. Slade looked down, and took in a deep breath through his pinched nostrils. He went down on one knee and bent over the man lying bloodied and broken in the street.
Cates. It was Cates. Slade put his hand on the man’s chest and closed his eyes for a moment. The man died trying to protect Hannah. Opening his eyes, Slade turned to Jones, who hadn’t moved, whose face was pale but immobile. “Get him out of the street.”
Slade stood up as Jones and Temple stepped forward to do his bidding. Numb to the core, Slade watched them. If Cates—a big man—looked like this, what must Hannah look like? Right then, Slade knew his worst terror. He looked up at the brownstone landing, saw Mrs. Stanley already there, her sons Jacko and Edgar hanging on to her skirts.
He couldn’t go in there. He couldn’t face what he’d see. To see Hannah torn and broken, like a lifeless baby bird, would make him lose his mind. He’d lost family—both parents and his grandfather Herbert, and it had been awful. But this was Hannah, the only woman he would ever love. And he’d never told her.
Someone put a hand on Slade’s shoulder. He looked down. It was Hammonds, looking fierce and protective. “Come on, sir. Let’s get you inside.”
Slade stared at the man, but didn’t move. “I can’t.”
Hammonds pressed his lips together and gripped Slade around the waist. “Of course you can, sir. You must. For Hannah.”
“For Hannah,” Slade repeated. He put one foot in front of the other and before he knew it, Mrs. Stanley and her boys were moving out of his way and he was inside. He looked around. “Where is she?”
Mrs. Stanley closed the front door behind him and Hammonds, who still held on to his employer. Her lips quivering, she pointed to her right. “We put her in the parlor, sir. On the sofa.”
Slade stared at Mrs. Stanley and then pulled away from Hammonds. “I want to be alone with her.”
Mrs. Stanley and Hammonds nodded silently and turned away, shooing her boys ahead of them. In the silence following their departure, Slade heard the outside noises through the closed door. He heard the hallway clock marking time, time in a world without Hannah. Stiffening against the shudder that ripped through him, he turned woodenly toward the parlor and peered into it. Filtered light from the curtained windows shadowed the room’s interior.
But not enough that he couldn’t see the figure on the sofa. Hannah. So still. Like a painting. Her outflung arm hung limply off the cushions. Her head lolled against her shoulder. He took a deep breath and walked over to sit in a chair someone had already pulled up to her. He sat down and looked her over. Cuts, scrapes, bruises. Smeared and spattered blood on her face and hands and clothes. Enough!
Leaning forward, he gathered her to him as best he could and rested his forehead against her soft hair. She was still so warm. The dam broke and took Slade with it. Washed away into a dry valley of anguish, agonizing shudders shook him, an intense sickness and desolation pounded at his soul. He called her name, rocked her, held her, begged her not to leave him. Finally, he whispered, “I love you, Hannah.”
“I love you, too, Slade.”
Slade jerked upright, wiped at his eyes, and stared down at her. Her eyes were still closed. And she hadn’t moved that he could tell. Was it then some cruel twist of his mind? Testing his mental faculties, he repeated, “I love you, Hannah.”
Her eyelids fluttered, finally opening. Blue-green eyes, the color of his world, stared at him. “I love you, too.”
“Mother of God!” Slade abruptly released her and jerked back, stumbling and overturning his chair as he tried to stand up. He ended up sitting on the floor, a tangled mishmash of limbs and chair and flowered upholstery. For several seconds he stared at her and blurted out, “I thought you were dead. Son of a bitch! You scared the hell out of me, Hannah.”
Hannah frowned, blinked, and confirmed, “I’m not dead.”
Slade stared at her for a moment. She’s not dead. His heart soaring, the sun coming out again to warm his soul, he thought that maybe once he extricated himself from this chair, he just might kill her for scaring him like this. “But everyone acted as if you were. I didn’t know what to think.”
Hannah smiled and then grimaced with the effort of pulling herself up onto her elbow. “Yes you did. You thought that you loved me.”
If that was her only concern, she couldn’t be too seriously injured. Everything in Slade softened, warmed. He wanted to throw his head back and laugh and take her in his arms to swing her around and never let her go. But being the man that he was, he sat in his tangle, frowned at her, and sparred with her. “I said no such thing. You were hearing things.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Admit it. You said it twice.”
Slade smiled back. Had it meant his entire fortune was forfeit, he couldn’t have looked away from her knowing eyes. The little dickens now had the upper hand. And she knew it.
Frozen in place in a ridiculous tableau, one leg wedged under the chair’s arm and resting on the seat cushion, his other one pinned under the chair’s weight, Slade drank in her bruised and bloodied but so thankfully alive self—and realized he was an inch away from blubbering like a baby. Determined he’d die before he’d do that again, he forced himself to grin. “I never said it.”
* * *
“Slade, please put me down. I can walk. I don’t want to greet our guests like this. I’m in my bedclothes. Just because you gave Olivia another afternoon off doesn’t mean I can’t dress myself. Now, put me down.”
“Not on your life. And have you go headlong down these narrow stairs, kill yourself, and ruin Isabel’s party? I think not. I’d never hear the end of it.”
Having made her token protest, Hannah relaxed happily in her husband’s arms. She stared up at his noble profile, at the shell of his ear—no less masculine than the rest of him. At the curl of his night-black hair over his collar. At his shadowed jaw. And pulled herself up to kiss his neck.
Clutching at her spasmodically, Slade made a guttural noise that seemed to stumble his feet. Turning his shoulder to the wall just in time to stave off a horrendous accident, he leaned against its bulk, bracing his feet against two successive stairs. He turned an indignant expression on his wife. “Are you trying to kill us?”
Hannah grinned wickedly. “You didn’t like that?” Then she shrugged. “Fine. I won’t do it again.”
His black eyes gleamed. “It’s only been two days since your injuries. And I’ve been without you for a week. Don’t toy with me, Hannah.”
Looking her husband square in the eye, she slowly tipped her tongue over her lips, moistening them. “Why? What will happen if I do?”
“Goddammit.” In the blink of an eye, he had her on her slippered feet and thoroughly kissed. But held gingerly against him, in deference to her bruises and scrapes.
Hannah would have none of his hesitance. She pressed herself to him—from her lips to her breasts, from her hips to her toes. She reveled in the hard, muscled feel of him. Taking his cues from her, he wrapped his arms around her back, his hands fisted in her loose wrapper. His mouth sought and resought hers, hungrily claiming it. Aching for him with a hurt bordering on the emotional, Hannah ran her fingers through his hair, pulling his head down to hers.
“Ahem.”
She didn’t care if she never drew another breath again. Just let her faint away locked in Slade’s passionate, groping embrace. His hand went to her breast, cupping it—
“I say, two Garretts. A-hem. Knock, knock.”
A loud knocking on the wall pierced Hannah’s glazed attention—apparently at the same moment it did Slade’s. She broke off when he did, stared up in shock at him, and then, still held in his embrace, spun to look down the stairwell to the first floor. At a smirking Dudley Ames. At a wide-eyed young miss with cornflower-blue eyes and blond hair. And at an openmouthed Hammonds.
“See, darling?” Dudley cooed to the satin-draped girl held so close by his side. “I told you Mrs. Garrett was well enough to … receive callers.”
A frisson of embarrassment separated Hannah from Slade, saw her hastily arranging her invalid’s gown, and setting her hair to rights. For his part, Slade immediately turned his back on the assemblage and took several deep, blood-redistributing breaths. Knowing his problem wouldn’t … subside for a moment or two, Hannah drew attention away from him by descending the stairs alone in slow, aching steps.
Dudley quickly met her on the steps and took her outstretched hand, assisting her down to the foyer. Pretending the heat on her cheeks couldn’t possibly match Dudley’s hair for redness, she greeted him formally. “Mr. Ames, so nice to see you again.”
All matured and polished gentleman now, neatly groomed and dressed in subdued shades of gray and black, Dudley bowed over her hand. “The privilege is mine, madam. May I say how sorry I am for your accident, and how happy I am to see you up and around?” Straightening up, he presented the young lady. “Allow me to present my fiancée, Miss Constance Holmes Wannamaker.”
Hannah turned to take the girl’s tiny hand. And gasped at the lovely confection she was. Hannah knew only one other girl who was this wondrously petite and china-doll beautiful—her own sister, Glory. So this was Constance. And she loved Dudley. How wonderful. With so much to recommend her, she received a warm greeting from her hostess. “Oh, Miss Wannamaker, you are beautiful. And may I congratulate you on your engagement? I just couldn’t be happier for you both.”
Without warning, Slade tromped down the stairs, brushed by them all, grousing his way into the parlor. “I could be happier, if I had a drink. Hammonds, see to it, will you?” Hammonds bowed himself out of the foyer. Slade then smacked Dudley’s thick, broad shoulder when he passed him. “Good timing, Ames. Thanks.”
His new pose dropping, Dudley turned to follow Slade into the parlor. “For what? What’d I do? We were in the parlor and heard the awfulest thump. Thinking the worst, we came at a worried run to see what was the matter. How were we to know you were … you know, right there on the stairs?”
Hannah’s hand froze in Constance’s. Her eyes teared as her face heated up to a blazing furnace. What must this girl think? Constance giggled, putting her other hand to her pink lips. The diamond on her ring finger was the size of a plum. Hannah’s eyes widened, but she fell in love with Constance when the girl spoke, earning for her blond self a lifelong friend.
“That’s our dear Slade. But, all things considered, I think our visit had best be a short one, don’t you, Hannah? Oh, dear—may I call you Hannah?”
Hannah bent forward enough to grab Constance to her in a fierce hug. “You may call me Hannah, if I may call you Constance.”
“Oh, I insist. We’re going to be such great friends. I have you to thank for so much.”
Pulling back and taking Constance’s hands in hers, Hannah smiled broadly. “No you don’t. Dudley came to his conclusions all on his own.”
Constance freed a hand to wave it at Hannah. “Oh, pooh!” She then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t let his mother hear you say that. She swears by you and would defend you to the death. As will I. I’d have died an old maid for want of Dudley’s declaring himself, had you not straightened him out.”
Hannah grinned hugely and leaned over to whisper in Constance’s ear, “Now if only someone could straighten out Slade.”
“Oh, la. From what Dudley tells me, you’re more than equal to the task.”
Their feminine heads together and their whispering laughter brought Slade to their sides. “Here now.” He stepped between them, taking both Hannah and Constance by an elbow and towing them—slowly, for Hannah’s aching sake—into the parlor. “There’ll be none of that. Poor, besotted Dudley and I can’t be winning in this female tête-à-tête.”
From the parlor came Dudley’s plaintive voice. “Besotted? Why am I the only one who’s besotted?”
“Oh, shut up, Ames.” Slade smiled down at Hannah and Constance.
A wealth of happiness for Slade’s love welled up in Hannah as her tall and handsome husband handed Constance over to Dudley. Slade then made a great show of ensconcing her on the sofa, amid a pile of thick pillows, fluffing them around her, and pulling up a footstool to put under her slippered feet.
Breaking the heavy silence that bore witness to his loving ministrations was Dudley’s voice. “Tell me again who’s besotted, Garrett.”
Continuing his fussing with Hannah’s comfort, Slade turned his head to look over his shoulder and spoke out the side of his mouth. “Shut up, Ames.”
They all four shared a laugh born of young love and then hoorahed Hammonds into the room with his tray laden with tea and cakes. No liquor. Slade eyed the tray and then Hannah, winking at her. Stepping back out of the butler’s way, he seated himself next to her, stretching his arm across the sofa’s back. His long fingers trailed onto her shoulder, which he rubbed lightly. Hannah’s heart basked in this moment of perfect contentment.
Hammonds set his burden on the low table between the two pleasantly silent couples and arranged the silver and china to his perfecting standards. He then straightened up and turned to his employer, looking him in the eye. “It’s much too early for anything stronger, sir. Perhaps later.” He then bowed and turned away, walking stiffly, starchily across the room.
Dudley risked serious neck injury by whipping around in his chair to watch Hammonds’s retreating back. Slade grinned at Hannah, and they both grinned at the bemused, questioning look on Constance’s face. The senator’s heir apparent whipped back around, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and staring at Slade, openmouthed. “When—? What—?”
Slade made a who-knows gesture. “Two days ago. The day of Hannah’s incident.”
And that became the topic. Constance poured and served, in deference to Hannah’s remaining stiffness. They all talked at once, stepping verbally over each other, trading conversational partners depending on who was looking at whom at the moment, and shared opinions and fears, until they had all the major points dissected and were down to particular details.
“Oh, Hannah, you could have been killed.”
Hannah felt Slade tense next to her as she answered Constance. “And I would have been, had not … Cates—” She stopped and looked down at her tea cup. Slade squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. She sniffed and raised her head, going on. “Pushed me out of the way. He went under the wagon’s wheels, but I fell backward onto the front steps and then toppled into the flower bed.”
“You poor thing. And that brave, wonderful man!”
Hannah could only nod through her guilt. If only she hadn’t insisted on going outside. Her boredom had cost a man his life. “Yes. He was. I crawled over to him, tried to help him, but it was too late. Then I sat up and saw his blood all over me. And fainted. Later, Slade found out that Cates had no family. We had him buried yesterday.”
Slade jumped up, a study in agitation as he ran his hands through his hair and paced over to the window. Hands to his hips, he kept his back to the room and stared out at the street. Awkward silence commanded the three still seated. Constance busied herself with the tea. Dudley wolfed down three more cakes. Hannah watched Slade.
She knew the source of his turmoil—he insisted her accident was no accident. He said it was deliberate, and that he wasn’t leaving her side until this thing was solved. And he hadn’t for the past two days. He even slept with her, chastely holding her bruised body. During the day, sometimes, she’d look up and catch him staring at her, some naked emotion bared in his eyes.
Whether it was fear for her or guilt for putting her here in Boston proper, in harm’s way, she couldn’t say. Probably a little of both. Why else would he refuse to discuss his father and her mother, the last words said between them before she’d left Woodbridge Pond? If she tried to bring it up now, he’d brush her off, saying one fight at a time.
Realizing that she was succeeding only in jumbling her thoughts more, and that her silence was rude to her friends, Hannah forced her features into a smile and spoke of inanities. “Are you coming to Woodbridge Pond next week for Grandmother Garrett’s gala fete?”
“Oh, yes!” Constance’s exuberance matched Hannah’s smile for being forced. “We can hardly wait. It should be such fun. Positively everyone is coming. Grandmother Garrett rarely entertains, but when she does—whew!”
Hannah nodded and smiled. It became quiet again. She cast around desperately for a topic, wishing with all her heart that Slade would come back over to her side.
Dudley beat Hannah to the next topic. “Constance and I have set a date for our wedding. It’s to be next year—the thirteenth of June. We’re looking forward to your and Slade’s being in our wedding party.”
Hannah’s expression of friendly interest crumpled. “Next June? How nice.” Only she wouldn’t be here. She’d be back in No Man’s Land. Despite not wanting to, she sought her husband’s gaze. Sure enough, he’d turned from the window to show her that black-eyed, penetrating look that said You’re not leaving me. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He solemnly swiveled back to the sights outside.
Hannah refocused on her guests. Who now looked extremely uncomfortable. Constance turned to Dudley, putting her tiny hand atop his thick, square one. “Perhaps we ought to go, Dudley. I’m sure Hannah’s tired, and—”
“Son of a bitch! That’s it!”
Hannah and Constance gasped. Dudley came to his feet. They all three turned to stare at the suddenly animated Slade. Long-legged strides brought him to the sofa, where he promptly sat down, pivoting to face Hannah. He took her hands in his, his posture mimicking one of a marriage proposal. She looked from his earnest face to Dudley’s and Constance’s blank expressions, and back to Slade. “What’s ‘it,’ Slade?”
“Jones, Hannah. Jones. Think—where was he when you went outside two days ago?”
She shook her head and frowned. “Why, I don’t recall. I think—”
“No, Hannah. Don’t think. Know. Where was he?” He squeezed her hands harder, as if the added pressure would cause the memory to pop out. Abruptly he turned to Dudley. “Sit down. I want you to hear this, too.”
Dudley sat. “What the devil is going on? Who’s Jones?”
“One of Hannah’s damned Yankees.”
Hannah turned her head at that and caught the look that Constance and Dudley exchanged. They must think her and Slade insane. Constance leaned forward frowning. “Aren’t we all damned Yankees? We do live in Massachusetts.”
“Yes, but in this case we mean the men I hired to guard Hannah.” Slade turned back to her. “Where was he?”
Hannah frowned, looking at Slade’s hands holding hers in her lap. Then, it came to her. She sat up straight, inhaling sharply. “On the bench. The one just across the street.”
“I knew it.” Slade jumped up.
Dudley and Constance followed suit and hurried to the window, looking out as if they could see the scene from two days ago. “Why is that important?” Dudley asked, turning back to them.
Slade never broke eye contact with Hannah. “Because Hannah’s accident, my friend, was no accident.”
A moment of shocked silence preceded Dudley’s serious question. “Are you saying it was Cyrus in that wagon?”
Slade shook his head at Hannah, even as he answered Dudley. “No. He wouldn’t be that stupid. He’d pay someone.” Now he turned to Dudley at the window. “But something’s been bothering me for the past two days. I keep seeing the face of the driver. He was looking right at Hannah—and whipping those horses. Those horses were no more runaways than I am.”
Constance gasped. The tiny blonde was clutching Dudley’s sleeve. Her heart-shaped face frowned up. “Hannah, you mustn’t be alone one minute.”
Hannah looked up at Slade. “I haven’t been. But Slade’s life is in as much danger as mine.”
“I know. Dudley’s told me. I hope you don’t mind.”
Hannah solemnly shook her head. “No, of course not. You should know. Especially if you’re going to visit us. Because anything can happen.” She stopped to laugh and gesture at her own battered and bruised self. “And apparently has. I’d understand if you don’t want—”
“Pooh!” Constance waved her shapely, doll-sized hand in the air. “I’m not the least bit afraid of Cyrus Wilton-Humes. But Patience? I have a bad feeling every time I’m around her. As if I’m in the presence of evil.”
Hannah sat as still as she could, what with her heart fluttering. Hadn’t she felt and thought the same thing, from the first moment she’d been in her great-aunt’s presence?
Dudley stepped in. “I agree. But tell me about this Jones character. How is he relevant?”
Hannah looked up at Slade, who still stood beside her at the sofa. He turned to Dudley now. “Look out at the bench closest to the street. That was Jones’s posted station, so he could watch the house. Hannah says he was there when she and her three Yankees went outside two days ago.”
Dudley stared out the window and commented, “I’m with you so far.”
“Good. Now see if you can answer any of these questions for me. If he was there when she left, where was he when Hannah went running back by? Why didn’t he stop her? If he was there, why didn’t he help her when her cloak snagged on the fence—right next to his bench? And finally, if he was there—why wasn’t he the one to pull her safely away, long before the horses and wagons got there, long before Cates got there?”
A cold chill swept over Hannah. It seemed to permeate the very air she breathed. The coldness crept into her bones, her soul. She looked at Slade and Dudley and Constance. Their still poses said they felt it, too. Dudley released the lace sheer curtain. His voice a ghost of a whisper, he intoned, “Because … he wasn’t there.”
“Exactly.” Slade’s one word cut the air like the chop of an axe. “Wherever he was, it wasn’t far, because he was the one to help me up—”
“Help you up? What happened to you?”
Slade’s face clouded up and then turned red. His chin came up one I-dare-you-to-laugh notch. “I passed out when I thought Hannah’d been run over.”
Hannah bit so hard at her bottom lip that she feared she’d draw blood. She chanced a peek at Constance. Her moony-eyed expression and clasped hands showed she thought this the most romantic thing.
And Dudley? Well, Dudley’d just been handed a silver platter on which lay, in a bed of satin pillows and pure gold, The Upper Hand on his friend for the rest of their days. But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. Instead, he adopted a serious pose, hands behind his back, mouth and eyes frowned up thoughtfully, as he nodded and paced the room in silence. Hannah rolled her eyes when Dudley approached Slade and wagged his sausage of a finger under his friend’s nose. Here comes bloodshed.
“Tell me something, my brave fellow,” he began, drawing the moment out. “I’ve always wondered this, but have never been able to ask, since in my experience, it’s been the ladies who faint at the first sign of trouble. But the ladies, being too delicate to question, and your being the only man I’ve ever known who’s fainted—now, you don’t have to answer if the question is too much for your frail constitution—what’s it feel like to have the vapors?”
Slade, Hannah, and Constance spoke together. “Shut up, Ames.”