Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (15 page)

Marcus’s eyes glinted with contained violence. “I’m sure he will find it within his heart to permit me such privilege.”

Redford nodded. After a long moment, he adjusted his hat on his head. “John Newman and I are old friends. I will visit him this afternoon and make the arrangements for an interview.” He paused, meeting Marcus’s gaze. “If that suits you?”

“That would be most…helpful,” Marcus acknowledged, with a nod.

“Good day then.” Redford tipped his hat to Catherine and moved toward the door.

Marcus shifted aside, saying, “Redford?”

Redford stopped.

“If I could ask a boon of you?”

The investigator’s face darkened, but he nodded as if he was prepared to listen.

“If you see Joe Tipton, do me a favor, and don’t tell him I’m back.”

“And if he already knows?”

“Just give him as little information as possible.” He shrugged. “With everything going on here…” His eyes drifted to the bloodstained floor. “I’m not quite ready to face some of my past…misadventures.”

Redford scowled. “You’re still a selfish bastard—”

“The man’s father just died in his arms,” Catherine cried. “Giving him some peace for a few days is not too much to ask.”

Looking away, the investigator grunted, not indicating a negative or positive response. Suddenly he looked up. “Miss Miller says that you trounced the bastard.” He sniffed. “Before he could do worse.”

Marcus shrugged.

“Well, for that alone, I’m glad you were here.”

“I didn’t do it for you, Redford.”

“No. But I’m glad just the same.” Turning, Nick Redford was gone.

“N
icholas Redford is a good man,” Catherine stated, closing the door behind the investigator. “You should try to get along. No matter your feelings, your father loved him well.”

“Too well,” Marcus muttered. “Better than his own son.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s like comparing air and water.”

“Don’t you mean oil and water?”

“No,” she replied, trying to be patient. “We need both water and air to live yet they are totally distinctive.”

“Aren’t you a well of wisdom, today?” he scoffed, setting aside his crutches and dropping into the chair.

It seemed that Marcus was covering his sorrow with belligerence. Catherine felt for his pain, but wished he would find another channel for his grief.

“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He looked out the window. “I can’t seem to rein in my temper today.”

Her feelings softened. “It’s been a difficult time…”

“Yes, well, for all of us, I suppose. So I don’t need to be a complete cur.” He shrugged looking away. “I’m just so…angry.”

“A man murdered your father, Marcus. Headmaster Dunn wasn’t even my flesh and blood and I want to kick up a riot.”

His penetrating blue gaze fixed on her. “Really? You seem so calm.”

She shook her head. “If it makes you feel any better, I want to kill the blackguard that did this. But at the moment, the only thing within my power is to pick up the broken pieces.” She shook her head. “I’m not like you and Nick Redford. I don’t have the chance to make things right. I don’t have the skills to take matters into my own hands. If I did…” Then so much would be different. Mayhap the Caddyhorns wouldn’t be such a thorn in her side. Mayhap she wouldn’t feel the festering wound burning inside of her every time she saw mention of her wretched relations in the papers. The houses, the jewels, the riches that should have been Jared’s.

“Thanks, by the way,” Marcus murmured.

“For what?”

“Defending me to Redford.”

“I was chastising both of you, if you recall,” she replied gently.

“Still.” His sapphire eyes met hers, sincerity and pain burning within. “You spoke up for me. Thank you.” He said it with a weighty tone that made it sound like she’d done much more than she had.

Her heart went out to him that he would count such a little thing as so important. Hadn’t others stood beside him? What had happened to make him feel so terribly alone? Or had he always felt this way, but she’d assumed otherwise?

Thinking back, for as long as she’d known him, he’d been the center of a boisterous crowd. The lads had all wanted to hover in his shadow and the girls had begged for his attentions. She’d always assumed that where she sat, on the edge of the crowd, was the loneliest place to be. Could it be that Marcus had felt isolated as well, despite the company? Catherine had always presumed that when one was accepted, one was connected. But she began to wonder.

“My father’s been busy recently,” Marcus said suddenly, pulling Catherine from her thoughts. “With a personal matter. Do you know what it was?”

“I thought he was with you and the board.”

Marcus shook his head. “No. He left that to me. So you have no idea?”

“None whatsoever.”

His gaze darkened, reckoning gleaming in those sea blue depths. “I cannot assume that this was a random act of violence against my father.”

A chill slithered down her spine.

“My guess is that he’s a hired hand.” Marcus’s voice lowered. “The question is: Who is directing that hand?”

A wave of nausea swept over her as his implications sank in. She didn’t know which was worse: Headmaster Dunn’s death being an arbitrary act of violence or premeditated murder.

“Are you all right?” Jumping up from the seat, he reached out and squeezed her arm. His grip was firm and reassuring, giving her the strength she needed to weather the queasiness. His sandalwood pomade seemed to help a little as well, combating the metallic tang of blood.

“I can’t believe what you’re saying,” she whispered. “It’s madness.”

His face was grim. “It’s my world, Cat. Which is why I didn’t want you anywhere near it.”

“So you think perhaps that…” She mouthed,
Renfrew
. “…is behind this?”

“I cannot assume otherwise. And I must hasten my plans before anyone else is hurt.”

“Hasten?”

“I don’t mean to sound callous, but at least my father’s death will force the trustees to meet more frequently.” Shaking his head, he seemed surprised. “I suppose I do have a lot of my father in me.”

She blinked. “Of course you do. Why do you say it like that?”

“When my father had his eye on the target, he used every means of achieving it. I, apparently, am willing to do the same.”

“He would be proud of you, Marcus, for not wavering. He would have wanted you to go on…”

“I
have
to go on, Cat. I need to know if that bastard is behind my father’s murder.”

“If
he
is responsible for this…then how, how can you even bear to be in his presence?”

“To extinguish something, one must get close to it….” The muscle in his jaw worked, and his face hardened to marble. “And I will sit down for tea with Napoleon himself if it will avenge my father.”

The backs of her eyes burned with unshed tears for Marcus, his controlled grief and his path. She saw no joy at the end of his journey, only more death, betrayal…

Her lower lip quivered. “I don’t know how you can stand it all, Marcus…The world you live in is so…awful…”

Leaning forward and pulling her close, Marcus mur
mured, “It’s not really as bad as all that. I do good work for His Majesty.”

She pressed her face into the hollow at his shoulder and the rough wool of his coat scratched her cheek. Pain seared her heart and she wanted to fall into his brawny chest and sob her heart out. Only her concern for how hard this must be for him held her back, but barely. “But at what cost?” She sniffed. “This has got to wear on one’s soul.”

“My soul is just fine.” His hand smoothed her hair. “But it’s nice to know that someone is worried about it wearing a little, instead of it burning in a fiery hell of damnation…”

“That’s not funny, Marcus,” she cried, anxiously. “All of this death and betrayal…How can you take it?”

She felt his chest rise and fall in a sigh. “We all have our crosses to bear, Cat. Besides, I don’t hear you complaining about the children, the orphanage, the work you do. You’re so strong, thank heavens.”

“I’m not strong,” she muttered into his chest, feeling pitiful. “I’m just a secretary.”

“On the contrary, you are the anchor that’s going to help this place weather the storm. The children are depending on you. Andersen Hall is depending on you.”

Catherine felt his words like manacles gripping her body and locking into place. Giving in to sorrow was a luxury she never could afford. Part of her resented the inability simply to experience her grief, but mostly, she was resigned.

Since her twelfth year she’d had to be responsible for herself and her brother, always doing what needed to be done regardless of what she wanted. Her lips tightened. If she’d had her wish she would have had a normal youth,
dance lessons, shopping expeditions, candy crèmes, a coming-out ball. She pushed aside her self-pity. She might not have it easy, but, oh, it could have been so much worse.

She needed to follow Marcus’s example. He was grieving so badly, her heart ached for him. Yet he forced himself to move forward, stay the course and keep his priorities in the forefront of his mind. She was more than a little awed by his fortitude.

“What…what happens now?” she asked, pulling herself together.

“I cannot bring my father back,” Marcus replied. “But I will do everything in my power to see justice done.”

Justice was Headmaster Dunn’s most sought-after goal. To Catherine, it suddenly outshone all others. Looking up, she implored, “I want to help you, Marcus. I want to do my part.”

His gaze softened. “That is quite honorable of you, Cat. But you know that that’s not possible.”

“But, I can do many things. I want to help you…”

“You will have your hands full here, I’m sure,” he replied, looking out the window.

The leaves rustled in the trees and Cat realized that the children must have gone to dine, for all was quiet. The poor children…Andersen Hall would never be the same. Everything was so terribly altered by this tragedy. She felt so impotent, so terribly afraid for the future.

“I want to do
more,
” she beseeched. “There must be something I can do.” At the dubious look on his face, she added, “I saved your life, don’t forget.”

“And it almost cost you your own.” He shook his head. “No, Cat. This is no business for you.”

“But—”

“Come on, Cat. Remember what we’re talking about.
This is dangerous work. You’re not cut out for such endeavors.” He looked down at her and, despite the patience she saw in his gaze, she could not help but be reminded of years before when he had hauled her up from the roof. Pain slashed through her; she was lame, unfit in his eyes. Why did the thought upset her so much?

He sighed. “Don’t look so injured, Cat,” he soothed. “This is simply a charge better suited to…well, me. It’s what I do. And I couldn’t do my job if I was distracted with worry for you.”

Pushing out of his arms, she stepped back, covering her hurt with anger. “If you will excuse me, I have work to do.” She waved to the bloodstained floor. “Something suited to my talents.”

“Come now, Cat, that’s not fair…”

“Leave me alone, Marcus.” The ferocity in her voice frightened even her. “I want to be alone.”

He studied her a long moment, then shook his head. “I know you’re grief-stricken, Cat. But don’t let your reasoning become clouded. You’re a rational girl. Once you think about it, you will see that I’m right.” He waited for her to say something, but she pressed her lips together, knowing that she would sooner bite her tongue than placate him.

Frowning, he swiveled on his crutches and headed for the door. “I’ll be back later.”

She slammed the door closed behind him, uncaring that the thud shook the walls. She just barely restrained herself from kicking it. Instead, leaning against the hard wood, she hugged herself as pain, anger, grief and frustration raged within her.

Marcus didn’t see her as whole; she’d always be an invalid in his eyes. Weak, powerless, in need of protection. She loathed the idea that he viewed her as needy. But deep
down, she had to recognize that part of her humiliation stemmed from the fact that she secretly wanted him to see her as a woman. A whole, flesh-and-blood woman. But he couldn’t. To him, she would always be the lame chit who’d fallen from the roof.

Why was she so intent on driving herself mad with idiotic girlish dreams? Why couldn’t she accept her lot and live with it, as Jared had suggested?

She shouldn’t be angry with Marcus. He was just trying to protect her. He was an honorable man, facing terrible things. He had more to worry about than her welfare. And, yet, he was concerned for her well-being. She should be touched by his thoughtfulness, not angry that he wouldn’t let her hurl herself into danger.

His protectiveness was somewhat nice, she had to admit grudgingly. When he was near, she felt safer than she had in years. But who would protect her once he was gone?

She would be alone at Andersen Hall, no Headmaster Dunn to lean on, no Marcus to brighten her day.

The weeping burst upon her like a storm. Lowering herself to the floor, Catherine pulled the bucket toward her and lifted out the rag. But she was so exhausted, she couldn’t move. She simply sat there on her knees, sobbing, bemoaning the things that would never be and the woman she would never become.

L
ate that night, in the darkness, Marcus prowled the halls of the orphanage, unable to quench the physical need to move. Turning the corner, he banged into the wall, only then realizing how foxed he truly was. He’d found Graves’s cache in the gardener’s hut. And hadn’t stopped swigging until the pain had numbed.

Numbed, but never truly receded.

His father was dead. He repeated the phrase over and over in his mind to bring the fact home to him. It was too hard to believe. Dunn was almost a mythological figure: powerful, indomitable, and all-knowing, if absolutely maddening. For him to be gone was like irreparably tearing the composition of the world. Everything seemed…out of balance.

The shadows in the silent hallway seemed to nip at his heels, so he kept moving, his hand dragging along the walls with a quiet
whoosh.

There were so many things Marcus wished he had had the chance to say to his father. So many words he longed
to hear. So much anger, still, at his father’s betrayal seven years ago. And the guilt, that terrible guilt. He’d let his father down in so many ways…

He had no parents; he was an orphan truly, not just by inclination. He was like the others at Andersen Hall, even though he’d always considered himself so very different. Now the only family he had was the army. A depressing thought. He knew he should embrace his isolation as if it were a beloved companion. For it would be his attendant for eternity. Constant, enduring and never to let him down. But somehow, the notion didn’t help.

Marcus eased himself down another corridor. His mission was the only thing keeping him sane, he realized. The possibility of meting out justice and assuaging some of this anger. Doubts circled him like a scavenger bird eyed corpses. Was his mission the reason his father was murdered? He prayed it wasn’t so, yet by the same token, hoped that Renfrew was responsible. So Marcus could tear his heart out.

Marcus walked blindly, sensing where he was and what was around him without truly soaking it in. The dormitory was up the stairs. The library down the next hall. His father’s office at the other end of the building.

A sound whispered down the hallway, seeping through his sodden brain. Someone was treading softly, trying not to be discovered. Images of the blackguard attacking his father flashed in his mind. He’d seen hundreds like him and they usually traveled in packs. Slowly, his lips curled back into a feral smile. Oh, he hoped they’d come back for more. He’d give them something to chew on. The Wolf was hungry and it was time to hunt.

Marcus’s heart began to pound, energy swamped his limbs. His head was still not clear, but his body knew exactly what to do. He hung back, pressed against the hard
wall in shadow, waiting for the man’s advance around the bend. Marcus snapped his arm out, grabbing for purchase and whipping the rascal around.

The delicate scent of lemons somehow seeped into his consciousness.
Cat
. Desperately he yanked backwards, trying to negate his maneuver, but a knee suddenly smashed between his legs with such ferocity, he saw stars.

The next thing Marcus knew, he was flat on his back on the floor, clutching his groin with both hands. Pained seared from between his legs to every extremity and he couldn’t breathe. His stomach roiled as nausea overtook him.

“Oh my God! Marcus!” Cat cried. Her small hands touched his shoulders. “I thought you were an intruder! Are you all right?”

He gritted his teeth against the agony, waiting for it to fade as all pain did.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, concern marring her voice.

Mutely he shook his head.

She waited, silently, thank heavens. He didn’t think he could stand a prattling female at the moment.

The nausea slowly passed and the throbbing in his groin eased from excruciating to acute. He waited until his breath no longer came in short gasps. “What the hell were you doing skulking about?” he bit out.

“I wasn’t skulking…And I could ask you the same question.” At his silent reproach, she added, “I was checking on the children.”

“At four o’clock in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She looked down, her flaxen hair the only radiance in the darkness. “Seeing them calms me. I’m so upset about your father…”

Where was a drink when you needed one? He didn’t
want to talk about his father’s murder. Didn’t want to think about the sorrow.

He realized that she had not removed her hands from his shirt. Her touch warmed him, the only thing to do so on this cold night, he realized.

“You smell like…” Even in the shadows he could discern her grimace. “Oh, that Mr. Graves—”

“I knew where to find his cache,” Marcus defended.

She sighed. “I suppose we all have our ways of coping.” Gently, she slid her warm hands underneath his shoulders. “Can you stand?”

He wasn’t nearly as jug-bitten as she presumed him to be, but he kind of liked how she was coddling him. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had bothered. Slowly, he leaned forward, making sure not to appear too clearheaded.

Wrapping her small arm around his waist, she helped him to stand. She felt so bloody good; it took every last shred of decency in him not to kiss her right then and there.

“You’re staying in the guesthouse?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Exhaling loudly, she hugged him close. “Lean on me, then.” Her tone was resigned. “I’ll get you to bed.”

He tried to ignore the rush of heat he felt at her ingenuous words.
She’s an innocent. Too good for the likes of a cad like you,
he chided himself.

With her willowy arms wrapped about his waist and his arm draped across her shoulder, she led him down the hall.

He liked the feel of her cotton robe beneath his fingers and the way she let out a breathy sigh every time they turned a corner. He tried to ignore the hunger growing inside him as her soft breasts pushed into his midsection.

As they headed out the back door, Marcus leaned over, smelling her hair. He’d have never guessed how enticing the scent of lemons could be. Then orange blossoms came to mind. And the incredible scene of Cat washing her naked body by the firelight…

He tilted his body slightly sideways, anxious for her not to discover his stiff rod. He didn’t want to frighten the girl. Or maybe he should. Tell her to run from him…screaming.

The fresh air helped a little as they exited a side doorway.

Marcus knew he should give up on playing the needy drunkard, but she felt so bloody good, he realized his principles had deserted him. And where was the harm? Lurid thoughts weren’t crimes in and of themselves.

With every step down the path, her robe brushed against his thighs. It was a delicious agony, over all too soon as the guesthouse drew near.

Slowly, they climbed the steps together, hips pressed close. He had to bite back a groan.
There’s no port for you here, sailor
, he told himself. But still, he was loath to let her go.

No candles were lit and the parlor was cloaked in shadows.

Their feet squeaked on the wooden floor as they entered the bedroom. He felt her tense. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, suddenly finding his scruples.

“No one will know.” Her voice was breathless. Was it simply from the walk, or was she likewise affected by their intimate embrace?

Gently, she helped him lie on the bed and flipped the coverlet over him. “Oh, your boots—”

“Don’t bother. I’ve slept in them before.”

Hands on hips, she stared down at him. He wished he could see her face, but it was cast in shadow.

Finally, she mumbled, “I suppose I’d better go, then.”

“Good, idea,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Run away as fast as you can.
But part of him dreaded the moment the door would close behind her, leaving him once again abandoned to his crushing grief. He felt once more like the lad of sixteen who’d been left to suffer a parent’s death alone.

Still, his selfishness galled even him. He couldn’t ask Cat to stay, it went beyond the pale. Besides, he couldn’t be responsible for his actions tonight. A cold jug was the only companion he could hope for.

“On your way out,” Marcus implored, “can you bring me the flagon on the table?”

Silently, she turned and went into the parlor.

Something crashed.

He sat up. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Fine.”

She returned with an earthen jug and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” Uncorking it, he took a long, hard swallow. The fiery liquid burned the whole way down. He exhaled loudly, feeling the heat rush through his guts. Not nearly as warming as flesh-and-blood companionship, but it was all he had.

He looked up, surprised to see her still standing there.

“You know,” she murmured, “I thought, after everything…I would collapse exhausted, but…”

“You can find no peace this night.” He inhaled deeply. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“Does that…” She seemed to be motioning to the jug. “Does it help?”

“Not really, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Don’t say that, Marcus,” she murmured. “It’s not true.”

He swallowed. “You should go—”

“I-I don’t want to.”

Charged silence filled the shadow-cloaked room.

Finally, ignoring the warning calls in his head, Marcus held out the jug. “Want to try?”

Slowly, she reached for the handle. Their fingers brushed and thrills shot up his hand. Cat gasped.

Now he had no doubt she felt it, too.

She sounded breathless and he felt like he could sense the rise and fall of her soft breasts. Marcus swallowed, knowing he was sinking into dark waters but not wanting to swim away just the same.

Lifting the jug to her lips, she took a long, deep swallow, and came up coughing and sputtering.

“Are you all right?” He jumped up, patting her on the back.

“Dear heavens!” She pressed her hand to her breast, wheezing. “That’s strong.”

“Little sips, Cat. Little sips.”

Nodding, she licked her lips and took another swig. She exhaled loudly. “It tastes like one of Nurse Jane’s cures.”

Slowly, she sank down onto the bed and set the jug in her lap.

Marcus knew that he shouldn’t, but he sat down beside her. They hadn’t done anything
truly
wrong. And it was a difficult time for her. Where was the harm in giving her an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on…

She took another sip and quivered. “God, this is dreadful.”

“It’s not as bad if you have something to eat. But I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you.”

“Wait.” With her free hand, she reached into her dressing gown pocket and pulled something out. “How’s this?” She tucked what felt like a small, hard pebble into his hand.

“It’s a mint drop,” she explained as she placed one in her mouth. “Little Evie thought I looked sad and gave them to me to cheer me up.”

Marcus stared down at the tiny candy he could hardly see in the darkness, remembering how precious confections had been when he was a child. For a little girl to give up her sweet for Cat…

Inexplicable sadness overwhelmed him. Discomfited, he cleared his throat, and murmured, “Have you ever heard the story about the origins of mint?”

“No,” she replied, taking another sip. “Ah, much better.”

She handed him the jug, and he helped himself, trying not to think about how her pink lips had just pressed to that round opening.

The spirits slid down his throat, and his muscles relaxed. “Well,” he began. “Mints, like licorice, have been around forever.”

“I don’t like licorice very much,” she interjected, leaning against him. “Only in small doses.” Her body fit neatly alongside his, all warm and soft and lemony-smelling…

“The name mint comes from a Greek myth involving Hades,” he rushed, trying not to think of how good she felt.

“The god of the underworld.”

“Yes.” He took another swig. “As the story goes, Hades was in love with a nymph named Minthe.”

“I thought that Hades was supposed to have been married?”

“To Persephone. Who was not very happy with Hades’ dalliance. So she changed Minthe into an herb.”

She rolled her head into his shoulder. “Let me guess, mint.”

He shifted. Devil take it, she smelled heavenly. “Yes.”

Reaching over, she took the jug.

“Slow down, Cat. This stuff catches up with you.”

Nodding, she handed it back and he set it on the bedside stand. “I remember reading somewhere,” she offered, “about ancient Greeks planting mint leaves near graves. Was it to remind Hades of what he had done?”

“Yes, and to mask the smell of death, I’m sure.”

Why did he have to say that? She didn’t need to be reminded!

Silence enveloped them, broken only by the sounds of the night.

“It’s all right,” she mumbled. He felt her shrug. “What’s…done’s…done…” Her voice took on a singsong lilt. “Is done…”

He did warn her, right? She’s a grown woman and he did warn her…

“Oh, what a terrible pun,” she intoned. “Done is Dunn, and pun.” Slowly, she drifted backwards, lying down on the bed. “Oh that’s really bad…”

Before he knew it, he was lying down beside her. “It’s almost as bad as ‘Cat’s dogged.’”

“Cat’s dogged!” she squealed, covering her mouth. “That’s funny! Who said that?”

“I did.” Sadness overcame him as he recalled the conversation with his father. He remembered the sense of connection, of breaching old wounds. Now Marcus would’ve given his right arm for his father’s embrace. Sudden tears flooded his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Marcus.” She sniffed. “I’m so sorry. I loved him, too.”

Reflexively, he reached out and she curled into his arms, pressing her nose into his neck. Her shoulders quaked and her tears dripped down his collar. He closed his eyes, letting his silent tears converge with hers.

Holding her, sharing his sorrow, made it better somehow, sweetness interlacing with the bitter pain.

After a time, she pulled back slightly, her face so close to his, their noses could almost touch and he could almost taste her minty breath.

She sniffed. “Every time I think about it…The attack. The blood. My heart…my heart pounds…so fast and…and I feel so afraid…”