Good Lord. She hadn’t meant to blurt out her last words. They weren’t what she meant—at least, not the way they sounded. Her hand covering her mouth, she stared wide-eyed at Slade. She’d just confirmed his innuendo.
A drawn-out silence first met her words, but then a determined clattering of silverware and a rash of loud conversations broke out. Servants appeared from nowhere to retrieve the decidedly fowl course. On their heels came others, these serving each diner the vegetable dish, asparagus in a cream sauce.
Well, no one could say she hadn’t gotten in the last word. Even if she had, to put it mildly, lost this round. Hannah picked up her fork and despondently cut her asparagus. Peeking to her right, she saw Slade mimicking her actions. Did he have to sit so close? Would she never have respite from his stinking bay rum scent and hatefully handsome face?
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he leaned over to her. “I’m still waiting for you to thank me.”
Gritting her teeth to keep from screaming and stabbing him with her fork, Hannah gritted out, “You’ve already humiliated me. I’ll not repay you by thanking you for having my own clothing spirited away, leaving me with nothing to wear but your charity.”
“Charity? You’ve a king’s ransom around your pretty neck alone.” He put his fork down and fingered the emerald necklace at her throat. He made deliberately sure—in her opinion—that his fingers caressed her bare skin.
Hannah raised her chin and leveled a cool stare in his direction. He withdrew his hand. But only to rest it on the back of her chair. For a moment, black eyes blazed into blue-green eyes. With his face only inches from hers, and his voice no more than a gritty rattle, he whispered, “Have I made you angry?”
Damn him. Her breathing constricted by the tight bodice, she gathered as much air into her lungs as she could. Slade’s gaze went immediately to the exposed swell of her bosom. Hannah redirected his gaze to her face by clutching her knotted napkin to her chest and all but whispering, “Have it your way, then. Anything to get you to leave me alone.” She inclined her head regally. “I thank you, Mr. Garrett. I am eternally grateful.” She snapped her head up, hoping her eyes reflected the blaze of fury in her heart. “There. Are you happy?”
“No.” Moving his hand from her chair, he ran his knuckles up the column of her neck and leaned over her, whispering into her ear. “I’ll not be happy until your name is Garrett and you’re … mine.”
With his warm breath feathering over the sensitive shell of her ear, a sudden light-headed feeling swept over Hannah, washing away her fighting spirit. She gripped the table’s edges and whispered, “Stop this. I beg you. You’re making of me a public spectacle. And I don’t appreciate it.”
He put his warm hand on her bare shoulder and squeezed gently. But the smile on his mouth didn’t quite reach his riveting black eyes. “The daughter of J. C. Lawless—such a famous outlaw—afraid for her reputation? I would think you’d be used to being a public spectacle, if not the curiosity these Brahmins find you.”
Hannah’s anger bubbled up. She fought it, knowing he was deliberately provoking her. She couldn’t care less what these people thought of her. But how dare this murdering snake even speak of her father?
Feeling cold inside, unable to move or to look away, she didn’t even flinch when he reached up to smooth back an escaped ringlet of hair at her temple. “This little game we’re playing, Hannah … I hope you’re good at it. Because I sure as hell am. And there can only be one winner.”
A game? He thought of his actions as a game? Feeling suddenly disconnected from this room, from her body, Hannah stared at Slade Garrett. She wondered how he could be so handsome and so evil. And for four days, he’d been pushing her, baiting her, taunting her.
During that same time—even in the space of the same day, he’d do a complete turnaround and hold her and comfort her and lavish gifts on her. She knew why he did all that—his revenge. She could fight that. But what she couldn’t fight was his exciting her, his awakening in her the feelings and desires she did not want to feel. Not for him. One look, one touch … and she was lost.
Slade suddenly pulled back from her, raising his eyebrows. “Such a face, Hannah. So forlorn. Don’t tell me I’ve already won. If so, I’m disappointed. I expected more of a fight from the daughter of J. C. Lawless.”
That was twice he’d said her father’s name. So it was a fight he wanted? Then a fight he would get. Hannah exploded. Lost to reason, she jumped up, knocking her chair over backward and startling everyone in the room into stunned attention. She slammed her hands onto the table, rattling china and crystal stemware. Her wine overturned, spilling a crimson puddle across the white tablecloth.
The sight, so reminiscent of blood, incited her further. Screwing her face up into a tortured mask of hatred, she glared at a wide-eyed Slade Garrett. “You … murdering … bastard. This is not a game. Not to me. Can you not understand that? My parents are dead.”
She curled a hand into a fist and slammed it down onto the table. “Dead. My sisters and I returned home to find your handiwork”—she stabbed her finger at him—“and yours”—she pointed in turn at her aunt and uncle, seated at opposite ends of the table. “Mama and Papa. Their murdered bodies. Their blood everywhere. Was that a game to you?”
Hot, salty tears rolled unheeded down her face. She dragged in a labored breath, noting the disbelieving expression on Slade’s face. Into the crushing silence, she spoke softly, wrenchingly. “How could you? Why did you? What could it matter now?”
Then, she straightened up, reveling in the sneer forming on her face as she gazed at her aunt and uncle. A part of her brain registered their expressions for her. Pale, hating, blank masks. But they no longer scared her. Hannah shook her head, not even recognizing the hoarse, unholy voice that issued from her. She pronounced each word with deadly emphasis. “Did you think”—she swallowed hard—“we wouldn’t know who killed them? Did you think … we wouldn’t care?”
Knowing she’d get no more of an answer from them than she’d gotten from Slade Garrett, she nevertheless turned back to him. And saw him, with deadly calm motions, put his napkin on the table, push his chair back, and slowly rise to his feet. Hannah followed his movements with her gaze and her words. “What made you think … we wouldn’t come after you?”
Towering over her now, Slade took hold of her arm. “That’s quite enough, Hannah. Don’t say another word.”
She jerked her arm, meaning to break his hold, but his strength was too much for her. “You take your hand off me, you murderer.”
“I murdered no one!” His bellowing response caused everyone to jump and gasp. For her part, Hannah shrank down nearly into a crouch. But still he didn’t release her, not even when he pounded his other fisted hand on the blameless table, sending a tall flower arrangement to its death. “I had nothing to do with your parents’ deaths. Nothing! And I will not sit here and be accused of such treachery.”
He glared at her until she looked down. When Slade moved, turning more to his right, Hannah looked up at him. And jerked in a ragged breath. The enraged glare he focused on the other end of the table would make Satan tuck in his pointed tail and run. Hannah’s gaze followed his, sighting on Cyrus Wilton-Humes.
Following their lead, the Wilton-Humeses’ dinner guests, mere innocents trapped in this remarkable tableau, also focused on their host. Cyrus, his face no more than a death mask, gripped the table with both hands. But he said nothing. Neither did anyone else. They all waited. For Slade Garrett.
And he didn’t disappoint them. “I had nothing to do with these murders. And I will prove it. But I don’t for one minute doubt that you and your lovely wife had everything to do with Catherine’s death. And we know why, don’t we?”
Hannah jerked upright. He knew why? How? And if he knew, but wasn’t involved, as he’d just said, why hadn’t he done anything to stop them? What sort of man did that make him? She put her free hand to her heart, even though the questions beat painfully at her temples.
After a tense silence, Cyrus became the third person to rise from the table. “How dare you! You—of all people. You have more reason than we do to hate what she stands for.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the room’s wide entrance. “Leave, both of you. This is my home. Mine. I will not listen to such outrageous lies, especially from”—he now pointed an accusing finger at Hannah—“you—an outlaw’s bastard. You came to us seeking shelter—all lies! You’re no better than your mother. We never wanted you here to begin with. You weren’t invited. And now? You’re not welcome. Leave!”
Hannah jerked against Slade’s hold on her, wanting to be free to scratch her great-uncle’s eyes out. By God, she’d not listen to this man’s name-calling! But Slade wrenched her back to him, forcing her to meet his eyes. “No, Hannah. You’ve said enough.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but her words withered into silence when she realized there was a pleading, almost fearful glint in his so-black eyes. Not expecting either emotion from him, and now more confused than ever, Hannah stilled in his arms.
Registering her compliance with only the barest of nods, Slade turned his sober attention once again on his hostile host. “We’re going, Wilton-Humes. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. My man will be along tomorrow for her belongings. See that they’re ready. But you be warned—she’s under my protection now. And I will be seeing personally to her well-being.”
He paused, letting that sink in. His final words, as much to Hannah as to Cyrus, were, “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”
Hannah stared up at him in surprise. The man was more of an enigma than ever. Watching his every movement, forced by his hold on her arm to turn with him, she saw him make a slight gesture at Dudley Ames across the table from them. Needing no further prompting, that large, ruddy-complected man pushed himself up out of his chair, slapping his napkin onto the table.
Slade once again turned to the numbed gathering, bowing slightly. “Ladies. Gentlemen. We’ll say good-night now. I trust the evening’s entertainment from this point forward will prove more … mundane.”
Then, with the room’s charged silence as background, and still gripping Hannah’s arm, Slade kicked his chair and hers back against the wall, clearing a walking space for them. Her heart pounding, her limbs weak, she gathered up her skirt. Slade finally released her arm, but only to put his hand at the small of her back. With Dudley joining them as they reached his side of the table, Hannah marched out of the room, followed closely by her entourage.
With renewed murmurings and the clatter and tinkling of resumed activity at their backs, down the wide hallway the threesome strode, past portraits of generations of Hannah’s disapproving ancestors. She ignored them, focusing instead on the men’s footfalls. Their heavy tread sounded a certain finality on the polished wood floor.
Deposited between the two men, and pushed along by Slade’s hand at her back, Hannah spoke as rapidly as she walked. “I do not intend to place myself under your protection, Mr. Garrett. I’d be a fool. Because, by your own words, and by the evidence I brought with me, I have more than enough reason to doubt your sincerity when you say you’ll get to the bottom of this. My fear is that the bottom you refer to will be the harbor. And I’ll be in it—dead.”
“What the devil? Dead?” That came from Dudley, but Hannah ignored his outburst.
As did Slade. “I’ve said it before, Hannah—if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I will tell you this—in this house, you’re already as good as buried in the ground. That much is certain.”
She shot him a look. “I never said I intend to stay here after this. I can take care of myself. After all, I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
He never looked down at her. “By the grace of God and my continued presence here over the past four days.”
Hannah snapped her gaze up to him. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He stared straight ahead. Her steps faltered. He pushed her along. But Hannah couldn’t believe her ears. “Your presence? Do you expect me to believe that you’ve been protecting me?”
“I do. You serve my purpose, remember?”
“Ahh. Your revenge. So you’ve said. But tell me, revenge for what?”
“Now’s not the time. Not in this house.”
Hannah stopped abruptly, forcing the two men to do likewise. “I’ll know this minute.”
Over her head, Slade exchanged a look with Dudley, one she couldn’t interpret. A quick glance at Dudley revealed he stared hard right back at his friend. Hannah turned again to Slade. And waited.
Finally, he refocused on her. “With no more evidence than my name scrawled on a piece of paper, you show up in Boston and publicly accuse me of murdering your parents. By doing so, you’ve slandered my name and my reputation. And that of my family. We are now—all of us—in danger, and in line to be the next victims.
“Therefore, Miss Lawless, you’ll make no demands on me for explanations. And know this, I’ll answer no questions until I’m ready. Nor will I be subjected to your protests. My personal plans for you aside, I now intend to keep you close to me—the better to draw out the Wilton-Humeses. Nothing more. You’re a pawn. A means to an end. But you will consider yourself under my protection.”
It was a good thing for him that he finished right then, because Hannah was close to exploding again and couldn’t wait to get her words out. “Protection? Ha! You mean to have me close by so you can have your revenge.”
In sudden angry and ugly reaction, he grabbed her arms and jerked her to him. From behind her, she heard Dudley Ames say, “Easy now, Garrett.” But as before, he was ignored.
Hannah had eyes only for the rigid emotion shaping Slade Garrett’s features into planes and angles, and making his voice a low growl. “I am not the one you need to fear. The Wilton-Humeses are as much my enemies as they are yours. You have no idea, Hannah, of who and what you’re up against. But I do. Whether you trust me or not, it doesn’t matter. You involved me. So now, you have to deal with me. And like it or not, you have to trust someone. And it will have to be me.”
In the following silence, with his black eyes boring into hers, Hannah digested his words. And realized the futility in making her situation worse. “I see.” When his grip on her eased the slightest bit, she forced a calm control to her features and asked, “Where are you taking me now?”
“That’s better, Hannah. Much smarter.” He looked deep and hard into her eyes, as if trying to gauge her meek acceptance against what he knew of her defiant spirit. Hannah remained absolutely still. Then, a frown flitted over his strong features, creasing his forehead. Abruptly he released her arms. But made no apology for his rough treatment as he straightened up and put his hand to the small of her back, once again directing her steps. “I’m taking you to my grandmother’s estate. You’ll be safe there. Isabel is the one person in the world the Wilton-Humeses fear.”
Hannah glanced up at him. This was his first mention of family. Somehow, she’d never thought of him as connected to loved ones. He seemed so unattached to other people. With the possible exception of Dudley Ames. “And will you be staying there, too?”
“Afraid so.” He eyed her briefly and then cut his gaze to Dudley.
Lost in the deepening heat on her face, Hannah chewed on her bottom lip. She hadn’t meant it as it sounded, as if she wanted to him to stay there, for heaven’s sake. Would she never win with words tonight?
Mercifully, they rounded into the foyer just then. Hannah stood quietly as Slade signaled to three servants. In a voice that reeked of authority, he barked out, “You there, Mr. Ames and I desire our hats and coats. And you, have my brougham brought around. That leaves you to send word upstairs that Miss Lawless will need her cloak—the lined one with the hood.”
The first two men bowed, departing immediately to carry out their orders. The third nodded, began his bow, but then pulled up short when Hannah added, “I also need Olivia.” She stubbornly looked from Slade to Dudley and back to Slade. “My lady’s maid—Olivia O’Toole. I won’t leave her in this house.”
Slade took a deep breath and thinned his mouth. But finally said, “As you wish.” He turned to the waiting man. “And the girl. That will be all.”
“No it won’t.” Feeling Slade and Dudley slide their attention back to her, Hannah ignored them, speaking instead to the liveried servant. “Tell Olivia to gather up for herself what she’ll need for tonight. Also tell her to bring me my handbag, a decent bedgown … and the gun in the nightstand drawer.”
The servant, as unknown to Hannah as the bevy of others in attendance tonight, dropped his starchy pose to stare open-mouthed at her. He recovered somewhat, bowed again, and then turned around, practically running to the grand sweep of the central stairway.
“Did she say ‘gun in the nightstand drawer’?” That was Dudley. Hannah looked up to her left at the big man and then turned to her right when Slade answered. The men carried on the conversation, literally over her head and as if she weren’t present.
“I believe she did, my friend.”
“I say, Garrett, I don’t believe the lady trusts you.”
“I believe the lady has reason not to trust me, Mr. Ames.”
“That’s true. But you’d think after your masterful performance just now that the lady would realize you mean to help her.”
Slade raised his eyebrows at his friend and then sighted on Hannah while answering him. “Hardly. The lady understands that I am helping myself.”
Hannah raised her chin a notch, refusing to have further words with him. But as she stood there waiting, her prideful stance relaxed, weakened. Suddenly drained of all emotion and overwrought from her tirade, an inutterable tiredness overtook her. She longed for nothing more than a bed.
She cut her gaze to Slade Garrett and amended her thought—her own bed. A big, fat, soft one. With lots of covers. And lots of quiet. Blinking rapidly to stave off a case of drooping eyelids, Hannah hoped that Grandmother Isabel’s estate wasn’t too far away.
* * *
The sleek brougham turned smoothly into the wide drive. Hannah peeked out the window. Something’s wrong. Wrapped in her cloak, wedged warmly against Slade, she turned to him. “If this is your idea of a joke, then I—”
“I promise you I’m in no mood for jests. This is my grandmother’s estate—Woodbridge Pond.”
“He’s telling the truth.” Sitting across from her and Slade, Dudley nodded good-naturedly, perhaps desperately, at her and then down at Olivia, all but lost next to him on the narrow seat. “He is.”
Wide-eyed, the young girl nodded back at him. “Yes, sir. I know.”
Hannah stared in disbelief at them all. “But we’ve only just left Cloister Point.” She then looked up at Slade. “That would make your family estate—”
“The next one over from there. As luck would have it.”
She swiveled her shoulders until she bodily faced Slade. He sat spread-legged, his arms crossed over his chest. Even in the brougham’s dim interior, she could see he was grinning at Dudley. She tugged on his sleeve to gain his attention. “‘As luck would have it’?”
Sobering, he looked from his friend to her. “What would you have me say, Hannah? The Garretts and Wilton-Humeses have a long history together. I assumed your mother would have talked about home. Even under her particular set of circumstances.”
Hannah noted the sudden thick quality to the air at the mention of her mother. “She did. But apparently she left out a few details—such as who the neighbors were. It’s not that I doubt you. It’s just that—well, I don’t see how I’m any safer here, with only a fence separating the two properties.”
To her surprise, Slade reached over to take her hand and tug it over to rest on his thigh. Smiling down into her face, and ignoring Dudley’s laughter from across the way, he confided, “Trust me, my dear Miss Lawless. There’s much more than a fence to separate the Wilton-Humeses from the Garretts. As you’re about to see.”
* * *
“It’s good to see you up and around, Pemberton.”
“Thank you, sir. A nasty cold, that was. Still, one is feeling very fit, age being what it is.” The ancient butler, whose round little head was capped by tufts of whitish hair, peered around Slade to squint his watery blue eyes at the two women with him.
Slade looked at them, too, noting Hannah’s bemused uncertainty as she looked from him to Pemberton. He then turned back to the butler. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, sir. She’s the spitting image of her mother.”
Slade ignored Hannah’s gasping intake of air to answer the older man. “I thought so, too. Although I didn’t realize it as quickly as you did. I’ve brought her as a surprise for Isabel.”
“I see. One can only hope that she doesn’t piddle on the carpet, like the last surprise you and Mr. Ames bestowed on your grandmother.”
Laughing out loud, and wisely ignoring the insulted noises from Hannah, Slade shed his overcoat, feeling happy and alive in the high-ceilinged, richly papered foyer. He tossed his heavy garment to the Garrett institution that was Pemberton. “Speaking of Mr. Ames, you’ve just missed him. I sent him home in my carriage.”
“More’s the pity for his mother.”
“Exactly.” Slade then turned to help a visibly miffed Hannah off with her cloak, also giving it and Olivia’s thin cape over to the man.
The frail butler, toppling under the garments’ combined weight, staggered forward a step. Only Slade’s quick hand on his arm saved him from landing on his thin beak of a nose. “Thank you, sir. Herself is in the drawing room with Esmerelda. They’re both pretending to nod in front of the fire. But one fears they’re actually devising new methods of torment for the unwary.”
“Then we’re just in the nick of time.” Slade turned to Hannah. “Isabel and Esmerelda are quite the rounders. You three should get along famously.”
“Oh? Especially if I don’t … piddle on the carpet?”
“No. Especially if you do.” Grinning at her wide-eyed look, Slade nevertheless noted the gray pallor of her tired face. The poor thing was nearly done in. She needed to rest. He turned to Olivia. “Pemberton will direct you to your room. Have him light my room as well. By the way, he likes to order everyone around, but we all ignore him. So you may as well, too. Right, Pemberton?”
“Correct, sir. One fears the shock of being obeyed would put one in one’s grave.” With that, Pemberton edged in a snail’s-pace shuffle toward the coat closet.
Behind him, and gripping the two small bags she’d packed for herself and her lady, Olivia shrugged good-naturedly at Slade and Hannah. Then, shifting the carpetbags to one hand, she put her free hand to the thin old gentleman’s elbow, easing his way. “Come along then, Pemberton. We wouldn’t want to grow roots, now would we?”
“One wouldn’t think so, miss.”
His hands at his waist, Slade watched the unlikely pair until they disappeared around a corner. Only then did he look down at Hannah, standing quietly next to him. Her face was still splotched from her recent emotion and her hair was coming all undone. But it didn’t matter. She was still beautiful. In spite of himself, Slade felt his heart swell at the nearness of her. “Well, what do you think?”
“I think that little man is older than God.”
He chuckled, as much at the expression on her face as at her wry comment. “We’ve often suspected as much. I’m the third generation of Garretts he’s confounded.” Then, something new in the way she looked at him caught his attention. His smile faltered. “You’re looking at me as if I just grew a tail.”
“If you did, it wouldn’t surprise me.” Her saucy expression then changed to thoughtful. “You’re just—You’re more like—Oh, I don’t know how to put it. It’s nothing. Never mind.” With that, and accompanied by the silken rustle of her aquamarine gown, she moved with a gliding grace around a centrally placed walnut table. There, she reached but to fondle a delicate figurine.
Slade contented himself with quietly watching her. His brain warned him against her, but his body warmed to her. With her every movement, with every curving, graceful feature of hers he outlined, sharp darts of desire coursed through him.
Perhaps sensing the thickening awareness in the air between them, she stilled and looked up at him. The emeralds at her ears and throat caught the chandelier’s light, sparking fire against her dark hair and velvety complexion.
Caught unawares, Slade stood up straighter. The jewels. The gown. They were mere afterthoughts on her. She needed no such adornment. His hands itched to rip the dress off her, to throw her naked onto the table, and to finally make her understand what she did to his control.
Because even without touching her, he could feel her body against his. He could taste her skin. His hands longed to shape themselves to the firmness of her high breasts. Hurting from simply looking at her, Slade fought his own sexual nature. In another moment he’d leap across the space between them, freeing her soft and silky hair from its pins, and take her—
She made an abrupt movement, as if breaking a spell. And indeed, she did. If she only knew it. “You’re different here … in this house. Somehow. That’s what I’m trying to say. And I certainly shouldn’t add this next, but this being the night for me to speak my mind…” She allowed her sentence to trail off as she looked down and then up again at him. “Your way with Pemberton. Your care with Olivia. And with me. I find I almost like the man I see.”
“Almost?” In an agony of lust barely controlled, Slade smirked at his own expense. “You wouldn’t like the man I am at all, if you could read my mind just now, Hannah.”
She frowned, looking contrite and hesitant. “I don’t suppose I blame you for feeling the way you do.”
Slade’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “You don’t?”
“No. How could I? Not thirty minutes ago I accused you of—”
He held up a hand, feeling desire and humor wilt. “I know what you said. If a man had accused me of those things, he’d be spitting his teeth out. Or lying out in the street. But those words between you and me … with everything else there is between us? Mere grist for the mill. Now, come on, I’ll take you in to meet the old dragon. And then we’ll go on to bed.”
When her eyes widened and she clutched at her gown’s skirt, Slade thought about his words, and added, “Your own bed. Alone. Now, come on. This way.” He held his hand out to her, indicating she should precede him.
After a moment’s hesitation, she did as he bade. And made him sorry. A delicately perfumed scent, warmed by her body, wafted to his nostrils when she passed him. He rolled his eyes at his own weakness, but was then completely undone by the sight of her slender, innocent nape as he walked behind her. With her head bent forward the slightest bit, with her hair upswept, exposed along her neckline was a fringe of tiny, down-soft curls. Exposed also was the shadowed cleft of her graceful neck where it met her regal head.
Overwhelmed, undone, and before his better sense could stop him, Slade reached out to her, clasping her by her shoulders. A tiny gasp coupled with her start of surprise. Slade turned her to him. Hazel eyes, so open and yet so injured, and fringed with the blackest of thick lashes, silently questioned him.
Without uttering a word, he dragged her against his chest, encircling her in his embrace. She fit there so perfectly, despite remaining perfectly still and rigid, her arms at her sides. Slade couldn’t even detect her breathing.
Forcing his words out, denying the raw wound this new tenderness wrought as it ripped through his soul’s armor, Slade righted the one wrong that he could. “Hannah, you’ve got to believe me. I knew nothing about … your mother and your father. Not until you said it tonight—I didn’t know. I swear it. I’m no fan of your father’s, but I wish to God I could have been there to spare you that sight. Or to prevent it from ever happening.”
She stiffened even more. Slade held her fast against him, sensing the building storm. And then, like a young, wind-battered willow, she broke. Slumping against him, she encircled his waist with her arms and clutched at his clawhammer coat. Gasps of agony escaped her, echoing in the foyer. Like a child, she called out for her mama and her papa. She pressed into him, seeking his warmth. And his strength. Through tearful sobs she spoke of blood … blood everywhere. She even cried for someone named Old Pete.
A rock-sized lump lodging in his throat, Slade bent his cheek to the top of her head. He brought his hand up from her back to brush aside emotion-dampened tendrils of hair from her brow. His eyes blurred with a moistness he would not acknowledge. And still he held her. And still she cried.
In another moment, approaching footfalls caught his attention. From all directions, the Garrett household was responding. On the stairs were Rowena and Serafina, twin spinster-sister maids, concern etching their wrinkled old brows. Others, all of them just as aged and in various stages of bed dressing, toddled down after them. Even Olivia and Pemberton once again stood in the foyer, holding on to each other.
Not to be left out, from the deepest recesses of the house came the waddling, arthritic cook, Mrs. Edgars, and her entire gray-haired entourage. And off to the right, in the drawing room doorway, Isabel stood, one hand to her matriarchal bosom, her other clutching at Esmerelda’s collar. The impossibly huge mastiff wrinkled her brow in apparent concern.
With a nod of his head, Slade sent a silent message to his grandmother. She nodded. Letting go of the dog’s collar, she went into action, silently shushing everyone and shooing them back. But Olivia, sighting on the dog and clearly terrified, took up residence at Slade’s side. She clutched at his coat’s hem and refused to budge. No one else obeyed Isabel, either. Including the calculating Esmerelda, who elected to sit on her haunches beside Olivia and eye her consideringly.
And so it was with such a grand and silent audience that Slade picked Hannah up, cradling her in his arms while she turned her bleak, tearstained face against his lapel.
With Isabel leading the pack, Slade carried Hannah’s whimpering form up the stairs. The two old maids scurried ahead of him, shooing all from his ascending path. On the second floor, the sisters let him pass, and then fell in line behind their mistress, the tongue-lolling Esmerelda, the lady’s maid Olivia, and joined the ranks of Isabel’s gray-haired, concerned domestics.
When he reached the door he wanted, Slade stopped and turned to face it. Several gasps sounded at his choice of rooms, as he knew they would, but Olivia innocently leapt forward to open the door, pushing it inward and then stepping back. Slade crossed the threshold and, without looking back or uttering a word, caught the door with his foot and nudged it shut behind him. Directly in the faces of everyone in the hallway.
Knowing they wouldn’t dare interfere—not even Isabel—Slade marched straight to his bed and deposited his droopy-eyed burden on the quilted counterpane. Walking around to the other side, his gaze never leaving the sight she made on his bed, he shrugged out of his jacket, loosened his clothing, and then bent to draw his shoes off. Taking a deep breath, he perched next to Hannah’s huddling body. Her back to him, sound asleep, her breaths came in a sob-stilted rhythm.
With practiced hands, Slade unfastened her gown and likewise her corset. He’d never understand why women wore these instruments of torture—torture for the men trying to divest their women of them, that is. There. Now she could most likely breathe. Not daring to undress her further, except for her dainty shoes, he scooted up against the mound of pillows at his back. Then, with great tenderness, he turned Hannah into his arms.
Refusing to think about what it was he was doing, he resettled them both. And then, crossing his legs at the ankles, he simply held her, content to rest his cheek against her hair. He closed his eyes. His last wakeful thought was When she wakes up tomorrow, what then?