A Candle in the Dark (4 page)

One thing did seem important, however. He motioned to the bed. “Last night, did we… ?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I offered my body last night. You turned it down.”

He’d been that intelligent, at least. Strangely, as much as he agonized over it earlier, the information didn’t make him feel better now. Cain slammed the cork into the flask, suddenly wishing he’d left it buried in the bottom of his valise. “Really?” he said. “Do I get a bonus for that sacrifice?”

“You get two hundred dollars,” she answered. “And all your expenses. That seems more than adequate to me.”

“Of course it would.” Cain smiled thinly. He had no problem with her conditions. It would be ludicrously easy to do as she demanded. And truthfully, it had been so long since anyone needed him, he felt oddly willing to do whatever she asked.

But he knew himself well enough to know that it wouldn’t really be that easy. He wasn’t well—or in control. As much as he hated it, he knew he needed to be protected. The morning was too clear in his mind; the rough panic and fear of his blackouts still gripped him.

He would never survive the trip to California, not without her help. It was difficult to admit, even more difficult to ask. He knew already that she cared about no one but herself, that putting himself in her hands meant a degree of trust she probably didn’t deserve.

Cain took a deep breath. “I need something else from you.”

She looked at him as if he were a bug she wanted to squash. “We have a deal. Or are your promises so easily broken?”

“I’ll do what you want,” he said. “I’ll be your husband until we reach California and then I’ll leave. But I want your promise that you’ll stay with me until then. No matter what happens.”

She regarded him coldly. “No matter what happens? What does that mean?”

Cain’s jaw tightened. “Sometimes I drink too much.”

“Really,” she said dryly.

“And I forget… things.” The admission was hard to make, and when the words were out, he closed his eyes in relief, waiting for her response. She said nothing. The silence in the room grew until he could hear the sounds of morning in the streets—the dull smacking of horses’ hooves, the squeak of wagon wheels, and the harsh shrieking of women screaming at husbands still drunk from the night before.

He opened his eyes. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, she stared at the window, at the broad stripes of sunlight glaring through a thin, tattered curtain that shivered in the draft. She looked thoughtful, her fingers rubbed the cut on her cheek. For a minute he stared at it, at the angry, swelling red edges, and he thought,
It was a whip that made that wound
. His fingers itched, and he glanced at the medical bag lying abandoned near his frock coat on the floor. But something kept him from grabbing it and ministering to her. Something he couldn’t really remember—

She turned from the window, dropping her hand from her face and crossing her arms over her chest. “Very well. I promise I’ll stay—”

A knock on the door interrupted her. She spun toward the sound and motioned impatiently to Cain. “Answer the door.”

Christ, the woman was ordering him around already. “Get it yourself.”

“I can’t.”

Cain looked lazily at the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Davey. For Christ’s sake! Let me in.”

She was at the door, turning the latch in a second. Davey barreled in, his breath short, his gray-black hair tousled. “Morning, Duchess,” he breathed.

The Duchess stepped forward. “Did you get the tickets?”

“You’re leavin’ this afternoon,” he said. “Managed to grab ‘em from some bloke who changed ‘is mind. Will you be ready?”

She laughed shortly. “I’m ready now.”

“I’ll be bringin’ by a few more clothes in a bit.”

“More clothes?”

“When I do a job, I do it right,” Davey said. “An’ one look at those fancy skirts an’ the whole ship’ll know exactly wot you are.”

“He’s right, you know,” Cain said. They both turned to stare at him, and he got the uncomfortable feeling that he was too unimportant to consider. “You don’t look much like a wife.”

She turned back to Davey. “Very well, then, where will you get them?”

“I got some stowed away.”

The Duchess’s voice lowered with warning. “Don’t tell anyone about this, Davey.”

“You paid me well enough not to.” The bartender spoke in hushed tones. “Now listen. You’re goin’ to ‘ave to be careful. Rose’s lackeys are already out, lookin’ for you. ‘Eard the rumors this mornin’.”

He didn’t want to know, Cain thought. No, he really, really didn’t want to know what they were talking about. Before he could say anything to contradict that thought, Davey had turned to him. The question in the man’s face made Cain nervous. Damn, he wished he could think straight. This was all too confusing, and his head was throbbing.

“You’ve got to get ‘er to the docks by noon—without them seein’. Can you do it?”

Cain tried to concentrate. He looked at the Duchess, at the hair that cascaded over her shoulders, the cut on her face, the green satin stained with blood. She looked like a whore who had just committed murder, about as far from respectability as she could get.

He got unsteadily to his feet, bracing his hand on the wall and making his way to the door. “If you put up your hair and change your clothes, maybe.”

Her lips tightened, but she said nothing.

Davey reached into his pocket. ” ‘Ere are the tickets, then.”

Ana reached out to grab them, but Cain stepped in front of her, clumsily grabbing them from Davey’s hand.

“Wait a minute!” she protested.

Cain stuffed them into the inside pocket of his vest, swaying a little at the sudden movement. “Remember your promise,” he said softly. “This is just a guarantee.”

“Promise?” Davey seemed confused.

“You don’t trust me?” She looked offended.

“Do you trust me?” When she didn’t answer, Cain smiled. “I’ll hold the tickets.”

“Wot’s goin’ on ‘ere?” Davey asked.

“It’s nothing, Davey,” Ana assured him. “Just get him a few bottles before we leave. Enough to get him to the next port.”

The contempt in her voice sank into him, much as Cain wanted to ignore it, and he found himself wishing it wasn’t there. The thought angered him. Why was it that it mattered to him what this slender, cold whore thought?

It didn’t, he told himself. It didn’t at all. And damn, did he want a bottle of bourbon so he could prove it.

Ana stared at the chaotic dock, somewhat reassured by the people thronging the wharf, all talking, laughing, screaming or trying to get through to the steamer
Delilab
. There were so many that she was just another nameless face in the crowd. But she didn’t let herself relax. Ana knew—too well—the skill and determination of Rose’s lackeys. The madam paid them well for that talent, and they would be watching for a disguise. Ana took a deep, calming breath. There were only a few steps between her and the ship. Only a few steps to freedom.

Those few steps were taking an eternity.

She glanced at her partner, who wavered as he shifted the valise Davey had procured for her to his other shoulder and readjusted his own. As slowly as he moved, freedom might as well be a hundred miles away.

“Hurry,” she said as softly as she could over the roar of steam and the rumble of handtrucks moving over the planks.

He looked down at her, his long hair falling into his face. “Whatever you say.”

She lifted her skirts and straightened her shoulders, moving into step beside him, forcing herself to walk at an even pace past the rag-covered women hawking cigars and candied almonds and the gangs of newspaper boys calling out their headlines. Her gaze darted, her fingers clenched on the rough wool of her skirt. If D’Alessandro was moving even a fraction faster than he had before, it was impossible to tell. He lumbered along, looking strained, as if merely walking—slowly—was the extent of his strength.

It just might be, she thought irritably. God knew he looked like hell, though he wasn’t shaking as badly as he had that morning. Her lips compressed into a tight line.

“Could you please—”

“I am hurrying,” he said implacably. His face looked ashen, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Unless you want to be the one carrying these bags, be quiet.”

“Mr. D’Alessandro,” she said in a low voice, “do I have to remind you there are people—”

“Looking for you. Yes, I know.” He opened his mouth to say something else, then stumbled as a would-be miner crashed into him.

“Sorry,” the man said quickly, flying off.

D’Alessandro gritted his teeth, pulling back the valise that had begun to slip on his shoulder. Sweat broke out on his brow in spite of the chilly weather.

Ana bit back a sigh of frustration. Gathering her thin wool cloak around her, she glanced again through the crowd. She saw no one she knew, which was surprising in itself, since most of Rose’s younger girls came to the docks on steamer days, waiting to catch the eye of a would-be millionaire. But then again, they hung on the fringes of the crowd, and Ana was in the middle of it, and well disguised, thanks to Davey. Her money had been well spent. She darted a glance at D’Alessandro. Mostly, anyway.

The wind coming off the bay was chilly, the morning sunlight had long ago been replaced by low, gray clouds. Cold cut through Ana’s cloak, the wind nearly lifted the fussy black silk bonnet from her hair. The large satin bows tied beneath her chin blew into her mouth, the dyed ostrich feather smacked into her eyes.

“Damn hat,” she muttered.

“But, Duchess, you look so—respectable—in it.” D’Alessandro’s deep baritone was touched with amusement.

Ana didn’t bother to look at him. He was right, she did look respectable, as she hadn’t for the last five years. She’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to wear a bodice buttoned to the throat, much less a corset. Luckily, whoever had owned this before was a bigger woman than Ana, especially in the bust, so at least she could breathe. Running a finger inside the collar of the fitted rose wool, she eased it from her throat. The fabric was uncomfortable and scratchy. She was used to the soft smoothness of satins and taffetas. No wonder respectable women were so irritable.

But she said nothing. She hated the idea that D’Alessandro shared her secret, that he mentioned it at all. She cleared her throat, glancing furtively around. “Please, don’t call me that here.”

“Call you what?”

“Duchess,” she whispered.

“No?” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose I could call you my
esclava del amor
, but it seems a little long, don’t you think?”

“That’s fine until we’re out of the harbor,” she said. “What does it mean?”

He grinned. “I called you my love slave.”

Even hung over, he had an exasperating sense of humor. It was time to nip that intimacy in the bud. “How charming.” Her smile was brittle as she looked at him over her shoulder. “You look terrible. Your head must be pounding.”

He paled at the words. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Before she could say anything more, the men in front of her stopped dead, as if someone were asking questions. Ana turned her head so the wind blew the ribbons of the hat into her face again, hiding it from any curious onlookers.

“When we get to the gangplank,” she instructed D’Alessandro quietly, “I’ll put my hand on your arm.”

He winced and shifted his weight, looking ill. “That’ll be a neat trick, seeing as I’m carrying both our bags. I don’t
have
a free arm.”

“Mr. D’Alessandro—”

“Cain.”

“You are not—”

“Or darling, if you prefer.”

“—cooperating.” Ana sighed. “I hired you for a reason,” she said. “It is very important that you act like a loving husband now. They’ll be watching.”

“They?” A bell rang, and he winced as if the sound battered him. “Who are
they
, Duchess? Who’s looking for you? You never said.”

She winced. “Rosalie’s men. Maybe the police.”

“Oh. Who’s Rosalie?”

She turned the iciest gaze she could muster on him. “The madam of the house where I worked.” His sober curiosity disturbed her. She was willing to tell him what she had to so he understood her urgency. But that was all. Luckily, the crowd moved before D’Alessandro could ask another question, and Ana moved ahead gratefully, feeling a swift surge of relief as she stepped foot on deck. She grasped the handrail and turned to look at her partner.

D’Alessandro was breathing heavily, as if the walk up the gangplank had exhausted him. He was still feeling the effects of liquor, she thought, watching the way he squinted to focus and the gray pallor of his skin. Now that they were on the ship, her disguise would be easily penetrable if they weren’t careful. He could be a terrible liability—right now he looked too sick to even pretend.

Ana glanced at her valise. The three bottles of bourbon settled at the bottom of it might prove to be her most valuable assets on this part of the journey. She remembered last night, when he’d so readily agreed to her proposal. She was beginning to think she liked him better drunk. At least then he didn’t ask so many questions.

He stumbled ahead of her, and Ana moved back a few paces, letting him lead the way across the deck, remembering that as a dutiful, respectable wife, she should allow him to look like the one in control.

She followed him past the door that led belowdecks and down the narrow stairs, into the darkness of the ship. Ana caught her breath at the strong stench of sweat and smoke, the hot, stifling air that made it hard to breathe. Her forehead was suddenly damp with perspiration beneath the band of her hat.

“Wait here while I check our tickets.” D’Alessandro moved to the side, and she saw that the corridor had widened slightly, and a crowd of men stood waiting. D’Alessandro shrugged the two bags from his shoulders and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Ana thought she saw his hands shake slightly, and she frowned.

But at least he was trying to look competent now. She hung back, waiting while he made his way through the crowd to the steward, watching the men who hovered around her.