Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) Page 6

  When she pressed hot cloths into his slashed flesh to clean out the infection, Rand suspected she might be bitter about the way he’d spent their wedding night. When she sewed his leg closed before the whisky had time to numb him, he knew it for a fact.

  “It is only my suggestion, of course,” she said to Shadow, “but if I were you, I would find a wheeled chair, disguise him as an old man, and get him home. I’ll find a way to lure a doctor up to the house.” She pointed to the desk. “Can you write?”

  Shadow nodded and completely ignored Rand while he jumped to the woman’s bidding.

  “Have someone deliver this to the newspaper right away,” she said. “Judge Rand Beauregard and Lady Darby McClintock, now Lord and Lady Beauregard, are pleased to announce their marriage—put yesterday’s date—in a private ceremony amongst their dearest friends. After the nuptials, they departed for a traditional honeymoon along the coast. A reception will be held to introduce the bride to her fellow citizens of Portland soon after their return.”

  Rand summoned the energy to push himself up. “I cannot leave the city, uh…”

  “Darby,” she said.

  “I cannot leave the cages, Darby.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Then do not.”

  “Don’t leave town?” He didn’t understand.

  “Do not leave the cages. Are they indestructible? If you destroy them, will it not buy you some time to get back on your feet?”

  He exchanged a look with Shadow. His friend seemed just as surprised as he that they’d not thought of that delaying tactic. Of course there would still be victims, but with the cages out of commission, even for a few days, Harrigan would be seriously inconvenienced. And with his operations more complicated, the police might have better luck catching the man red-handed and be able to deal with him legally.

  “Don’t just sit there, Shadow. Get my clever wife a drink.”

  “No, but I thank you just the same.” She bent close to him and lowered her voice. “And let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Beauregard. I’m not your wife just yet.” She wiggled her ring finger—her empty ring finger. “Now, who is going to show me how to retrace my steps through this maze?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Darby wished she’d had an audience. Truly.

  As Nero led her back out into the wide alley and through the labyrinth that would lead her back to Jezebel’s brothel, she had to imagine the applause she would get if her fellow seamstresses from Massachusetts could have watched her performance. Not only were her accent and mannerisms spot on, but she’d managed to leave her handsome husband with his mouth hanging open. It couldn’t have gone better had she planned it.

  She was worried about his leg. The wound was nothing to laugh at. And her heart had nearly stopped when she’d seen how deep the cut had gone. But luckily, she’d stood at her mother’s shoulder when she’d cared for wounded miners in Scotland. She knew how to treat infection, and she knew how to sew flesh without thinking of it as flesh. When she’d sewn up her first patient, she’d been fifteen years old. And though she’d kept her gullet from rising, she’d never dreamt she’d be using the experience in America.

  Unfortunately, it appeared as though American men were just as keen on fighting as were Scots. And if her husband was going to continue to wear two masks, she supposed it wouldn’t be the last of his limbs she would mend.

  They finally stepped out into open air again just twenty feet from the stairway that led up one side of Jezebel’s establishment. Nero tipped his hat and stood guard at the bottom stair while she made her way up the double flight. When she reached the top, she gave the required set of knocks, then looked back at the lame little man and mouthed the words thank you.

  He waited until the door was opened before he tipped his hat again and disappeared like a cat.

  The burly fellow she’d met earlier had nothing but a scowl for her. Loyal to Jezebel, no doubt, disallowed courtesy to the wife. But that was best, she reasoned. After all, the wife of the commissioner needn’t be friends with every brawler she met.

  The man led her down two flights of stairs to Jezebel’s own rooms. Of course she might have walked through the front doors and saved herself the exertion, but the charade might keep the Phantom’s enemy from knowing exactly who came and went from his hideout. Besides, she’d promised Hardy Jacobs she would do as she was told, though he’d never specified just how very many people would be giving her orders.

  The door closed behind her. She opened the clasp of the pretty purple cape and draped it over the back of a velvet chair that had been upturned the first time she’d come through. When Beauregard greeted her as the harlot herself, she’d realized the joke the woman had played, dressing Darby in her own clothes before sending her to him. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. The next time she came, she’d bring her own changes of clothes.

  If there were a next time.

  The tension between her husband and his men had been palpable when she’d guessed he was the Phantom. But why else would she have been required to go through such an extravagant charade otherwise? Though he’d been all manners with his men looking on, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had some choice words for her as soon as they were alone again. Most men wouldn’t welcome their wives sticking their noses in their business, let alone nosing around in his clandestine affairs.

  But even if he were kind about it, she was sure he would find some way of inviting her to never visit his underground sanctuary again. Perhaps something along the lines of his advertisement—wives need not apply.

  He’d clearly hired her to be his wife—his showpiece for the pretty house on the hill. He already had his woman for the seedier side of town. In fact, the other woman was probably a regular visitor to the dimly lit apartment with the rich velvet cushions and ornately carved furniture. Were those drapes on the walls meant to keep out the damp? Or did they hide things a well-bred lass was never meant to see?

  She shivered. Had Jezebel decorated the place?

  She remembered the look on the woman’s face at the church, and suddenly, she understood exactly how the woman had felt. They had much in common.

  The devil herself hobbled into the room an instant later, just as Darby had begun to undress. She noticed the cloak and gave her a smirk.

  No. No matter how much they had in common, the two of them were never going to be friends. And why should they be? She was the Queen of England. She needed no friends.

  Without shame, Darby stripped to her camisole and dressed once more in the gentleman’s outfit she’d been given at the last checkpoint. If she were retracing her steps in reverse, she would be going outside the front doors of the cathouse and taking a hack away from the docks. She would be taken to the east side of the river to a meaningless address, walk a block alone to a small house on a corner, and change into a long black cloak and her own clothing. A gentleman would walk her in the other direction where another hack would pick her up and return her to the warehouse by the stock yard. Once inside, she would give the cloak over to the toothless man in rags. Then, hopefully, Jacobs would promptly rescue her in Beauregard’s carriage and take her home again.

  After all that, her husband probably wouldn’t see the need to warn her away. He would assume she wouldn’t want to go through the bother again. And she might not at that. If she were given the choice between being the wife on the hill, or the harlot near the docks, she’d choose the house on the hill. Whether or not she would ever choose to perform any wifely duties remained to be seen.

  Heaven help her, she was even thinking with a British accent.

  “Bloody hell,” she murmured.

  “Pardon?” The hack driver’s eyes widened.

  She shook her derbied head, lowered her voice, and said, “Never mind.” Then she gave him the address of the next leg of her excursion using a right heavy brogue just to remind herself who she really was.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time she was home again, she was exhauste
d and determined she would never do that dance again. The next time he got himself cut open, he could let his city wife tend him.

  Darby just hoped the woman made ugly stitches.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It took Rand four switches to get Harrigan’s men off his tail. And they only succeeded the last time because it was so dark. It had taken an entire day of moving, resting, hiding, and moving again. He finally grew too tired to care, and apparently, Harrigan’s man must have felt the same. Otherwise, the slack-jaw would have stopped the meat wagon as it he rolled out of the alleyway with Rand inside.

  When Jacobs finally helped him into the house, they both smelled rotten.

  His pretty wife hardly blinked an eye—until she got a whiff of his new Eau de Boeuf cologne. But instead of making a face, she pulled out a lacy handkerchief, placed it delicately over her nose, and ordered a bath for him. A shallow bath, she corrected, because his wound had to stay out of the water.

  “I suppose you’ll have to do the honors, my dear.” He struggled to keep his eyes open. “To watch after my stitches.”

  “Not on your life, Lord Beauregard.” She turned toward the stairs with her hanky and nose in the air. But after climbing a few steps, she turned, frowning, and came down again. She strode up to him, pressed her hand against his head, and looked off into the distance like she had before, like she was listening.

  “Just as hot as you were this morning,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “Jacobs, can you carry him up the stairs?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mabye it was his fever, or his fatigue, but it was as if the woman standing in front of him was not the same woman who had called him Lord Beauregard a minute ago.

  “Lie him on his bed. There will be no bath tonight. But Jenny, I’ll still need some buckets of very hot water.”

  “Yes’m.”

  The mention of hot water made him flinch. He was afraid he knew exactly what she planned to do with them.

  Jacobs bent and pushed his shoulder into Rand’s middle. The floor came up to greet him as the bigger man pushed him over his shoulder and lifted him up the stairs. He didn’t have the strength for a bath anyway. In fact, he had just enough...to fall asleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  Later that night, Rand woke to the sound of conversation.

  “I’m sorry to have brought you here under false pretenses. But I’m sure you can understand why we must not allow the Phantom to know how terribly he wounded my husband.”

  “Then I take it, madam, you are not suffering from wedding nerves?”

  The woman laughed lightly. “No, doctor. Not anymore.”

  “That’s fine, then. Just fine. May I say I’m pleased Mr. Beauregard found a lady of quality to take to wife. He’s a fine man. Good for Portland. Good for Oregon.”

  “Lord Beauregard,” the woman said.

  No. Not a woman. His woman. His wife… But who was Lord Beauregard?

  A cool, slender hand descended on his forehead again. It did that a lot, he thought.

  Then he didn’t think much at all after that.

  ~ ~ ~

  He woke to pain. His leg was on fire and the flames reached up through him to stretch up his neck. Someone shouted. Someone shushed. Someone poured whiskey down his throat. But he didn’t like whisky!

  Then the hand was back. Soothing. Shushing. Never afraid. And if the hand could be brave, he decided he could be brave too.

  ~ ~ ~

  More pain. More pain. There was more pain. Couldn’t anyone hear him?

  Then there was singing. Singing. Less pain, then only singing.

  ~ ~ ~

  He woke in the darkness. The red glow of the fire spread out around the wall and spilled onto the cheek of the woman he’d married. How long ago? A day? A week?

  His bride. His. But not his wife.

  If he died of a leg wound, he would never really know her.

  She stirred and leaned toward him before her eyes were even open. She was surprised to find him looking at her.

  “Rand?” She spoke to him as if at a distance. “It’s all right,” she said with a smile. “You’re going to be all right.”

  He was?

  He frowned. “Someone was here. Singing.” He looked at his bride. “Bring her back, would you?”

  She looked worried. Maybe she thought he was out of his mind. But he could have sworn there had been singing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jacobs came to the room before the sun was up. “How is he?”

  Darby was glad to have good news. Finally. “His fever broke. His leg looks much better. It’s a good thing we opened it up again. All that running around was too much, I think. Now he needs to stay put for as long as we can hold him down.”

  The driver grinned. “My turn.” He offered a hand and pulled her to her feet. “You sleep. I’ll sit on him.”

  She indulged in one lingering look, pretended to fuss, then dragged herself away.

  “It wasn’t as if she had feelings for the man. They hadn’t known each other long enough for that. But she did feel something—like when she’d saved a calf one summer when its mother had died. She spent so much time feeding it and worrying about it, she called it her pet even after it was full grown. Rand Beauregard was just that. An animal she’d had a hand in saving. He wasn’t quite out of the woods yet, but his chances had improved a hundred fold since the night before. So she felt...responsible was all.

  Before she could crawl into bed, however, she had to call the staff together and have a nice talk about the Phantom. She had to explain why the monster of Portland, Oregon had to recuperate in their very house, and why they had to keep that fact to themselves.

  And if they couldn’t?

  Well, she would just have to persuade them…

  ~ ~ ~

  A woman was singing. Somewhere in the mist rolling across the river… She had to be in a boat. And she was moving closer.

  Rand opened his eyes and the singing from his dreams grew sick and dissonant. But it wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t a woman signing. It was Hardy Jacobs snoring two feet from him. The man had fallen half off his chair and his head was pressed against the edge of the table. How he could sleep in that position was a miracle.

  Rand put up with it for another minute, however, so he could swallow the disappointment that his wife hadn’t been the one to watch over him in the night.

  Granted, they were still strangers, but he’d expected…some concern. After all, if he’d died, she might have ended up in the poor house if it were well known that their marriage had never been consummated.

  “Rand Beauregard is alive. Alert the papers!” The big man grinned and unfolded himself from his awkward position, then stood.

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Rand’s voice was raspy. His throat dry. He remembered whisky. “Why did you give me whisky?” he asked. “You know I hate it.”

  Jacobs shook his head. “I’d never be guilty of that blasphemy. Must have been your lady wife. When the sun come up, I shooed her off to bed.”

  So she had cared. With all she had learned about him, she still stood by him.

  Excellent.

  He tried to sit up, but he didn’t have the strength.

  “Here, now. Sit back. I’m supposed to sit on you if you try to get out of that bed.”

  Rand shook his head. “I need to have a talk with the staff—”

  “No need. Lady Beauregard already explained it all.” He chuckled. “Then she threatened to wipe their posterity from the face of the earth if word ever got out. One of us squeals, she says, we’ll all pay.” He laughed out loud for a minute, then shook his head. “You stay put. I’ll get you a pot to piss in, then I’ll see if you’re allowed breakfast. The doc should be by in a while.”

  “She got a doctor to come?”

  Jacobs’ eyes flashed. “I reckon your wife could get near anyone to do anything.”

  The casual comment scared the life out of him for only a second or
two. There was no need for him to be afraid. She might need to order the staff around, but not him. And no matter what she said or how she argued, he wouldn’t stop his Phantom work and that was final. If it meant she would never wear his ring, then she would never wear his ring.

  But he really hoped she would wear his ring.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What do you mean, stop? Of course I don’t want you to stop.”

  The conversation over the breakfast table, which also happened to be his bed, wasn’t going at all like Rand had expected. As the man, it was his duty to lay down the law. But it seemed like his wife had already made up her mind before they could even discuss things.

  Instead of insisting she come around to his way of thinking, it sounded like she was already there waiting for him.

  He scowled. “So there’s no problem?”

  She shrugged and smiled, damn her. “No. No problem.”

  Right then, Jenny came in and said she needed Darby’s attention. And the pair left him alone.

  “Well, I’ll have you know,” he mumbled, “that there is a problem, Mrs. Beauregard.” And the problem was, he was hurting and itching for a fight. And she was being far too agreeable when he’d been getting ready for a good, loud argument.

  She came back into the room and her smile turned instantly to a frown. “What the devil is the matter with ye—” She choked, then went off on a coughing fit. He wanted to do something to help, but he couldn’t get to her.

  She waved a hand to signal she was going to be all right. The coughing slowed to a stop and she took a seat on the edge of the chair by the door. “Forgive me,” she said, suddenly cold and aloof again, like she’d been the day before, on the stairs. Gone was the woman who had cared for him through the night. “What were we discussing? Oh, yes. I noticed a scowl on your face when I entered before. I wondered what that matter might be.”

  “My leg hurts.” He bit his lower lip to keep it from protruding and making it look like he was pouting, even though that was exactly what he was doing.