The Beloved Woman (33 page)

His three dirty, bloody, drunken friends staggered to their feet as Katherine ushered Adela and Vittorio into the parlor. Justis silently cursed the timing and Salazar’s patronizing expression. “Katie. Katherine. Mrs. Gallatin.”
Damn introductions
! “I’d like you to meet three of the finest lads in New York.” He waved toward the trio. “Mr. Gilhooly, Mr. Flannigan, and Mr. Connery.”

“Sirs.” As Justis had known she would, she smiled graciously and held out a hand to each of them. They nearly fell down trying to bow over it. She kept a pleasant expression on her face, but Justis recognized disgust in the hard set of her mouth.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “I’m very glad to meet you. These are my friends, Señora Mendez and Señor Salazar. They’re visiting from Mexico. The California area.”

“Mex’cans,” one of the men muttered darkly. “I was with Sam Houston when he whipped the murderin’ bunch in Texas. California’s next.”

Justis grimaced at the insult and hitched a thumb toward the door. “Time to go, lads.” But he couldn’t send them packing as if he were embarrassed to be with them. He’d spent too many of his early years ashamed to call himself Irish. Not anymore. He grabbed the battered, wide-brimmed hat he’d brought all the way from Gold Ridge and refused to throw away. “Come on, fellers. I’ll spring for supper down at one of the oyster cellars.”

He held the door for them and they doffed their caps to Katherine on their way out. After they were gone, Justis looked at her and saw the questions and insinuations in her eyes. “Is that the kind of business you usually devote yourself to during the day?” she asked. “Brawling
and drinking? Where did you meet that bunch—at a saloon on the wharf?”

His intended words of explanation faded behind a defensive sarcasm he had honed since his days as a no-account Irish kid, the one who fought insults with insults. “Nah. I met ’em at a whorehouse,” he told her, and walked out.

H
E CAME BACK
well after midnight, sober and exhausted but still burning with a sense of betrayal. She had stood there and insulted him while that damned Salazar watched like a smirking shadow behind her.

The sleeping chamber was pitch dark. Justis dropped his clothes on the floor and got into bed, sensing her presence even though he couldn’t see her. He lay on his back and frowned into the blackness, too tense to sleep. He could smell the delicate cologne she used and feel the heat of her body only inches away.

With a soft rustling of the covers she shifted closer to him. Her hand settled gently on his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me they were firemen? Why didn’t you just say that you’d been helping them? I heard the truth from Thomas. His brother saw you at the fire.”

Justis frowned. He’d have to talk to the hotel porter about his damned wagging tongue. “What difference does it make? You took one look at me and made up your mind to the worst.”

“I’m sorry. I truly am. But you’ve never bothered to tell me that you’ve taken to fighting fires for sport.”

“I don’t tell you everything. Just like you don’t tell me what you and Salazar do together.”

“You never ask.”

“You wanted your freedom and privacy.”

“But I never meant to exclude you. I wouldn’t mind if you inquired politely—”

“I don’t feel like
inquiring politely
. I see the happy look
on your face after you’ve been with him. It tells me all I need to know.”

“Perhaps I look that way because I’m glad to see
you.
”

“Hell.” He rolled toward her and explored with impatient hands. She was naked. “You’re glad to see me in bed.”

“Oh, Justis.
No
. It’s not only that.”

He tossed the covers back and found her belly with his mouth. As he kissed it roughly he pulled her legs apart. “Be quiet and let me do what you want.”

Her hands tightened convulsively in his hair as he lowered his mouth between her thighs. “I am proud of you for saving those children today,” she whispered in a choked voice. “Very proud, no matter what you think.”

His fingers dug into her thighs as bittersweet emotion twisted his throat. “Shut up.”

She whimpered. “All right. This is the only way you know how to say that you forgive me.”

“I don’t care what you think of me. There’s nothing for me to forgive.”

“Shhh.”

He took her with his mouth and tongue until her pelvis writhed upward and she trembled with release. As she collapsed, panting in the aftermath, he rested his head on her stomach, feeling weary and sad. She had assumed the worst about him today; it had shown him what she really thought.

She licked her fingers and gently smoothed them over the scratches on his forehead. “I am proud of you,” she whispered again. “And very sorry that I hurt your feelings.”

“Hurt my feelings? Hell, all you did was make me mad. Women get their feelings hurt. Younguns get their feelings hurt. I’m a grown man.” He moved away from her and turned his back. “Good night.”

“But I am truly—”

“Good night.”

He heard her exhale softly, defeated. “Good night, then,” she said, her voice ancient. “It’s no use.”

I
F THERE WAS
one luxury he had grown to crave, it was the copper bathtub that sat in the dressing room. Justis got up shortly after dawn to soak his sore muscles in hot soapy water. As he lounged in the wonderful contraption with his eyes shut, Katherine burst into the room, her robe half drawn and her mane of black hair tangled around her.

“Excuse me,” she murmured, and grabbed a towel from the washstand. She pressed it to her face and retched for a moment, then leaned heavily on the washstand and rinsed her mouth with water from the drinking pitcher.

Justis sat forward and watched her. Lingering traces of anger were pushed aside by concern. “Katie?”

She dabbed cold water on her face and kept her back to him. “What you said about the whorehouse. You’ve never gone to one of those with your friends, have you?”

He settled back in the tub, assessing her with shrewd eyes. “That notion been chewin’ at you?”

“Yes.”

“I ask no less of myself than I ask of you. I’ve not been unfaithful to you.”

“Good.”

“Why do you care? ’Fraid I’ll give you a whore’s disease?”

Her sharp gasp turned into a hiss of anger. “Your nasty temper is matched only by your vulgar mind.”

He reached out and grasped her wrist as she started out of the room. She jumped and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Bein’ mad at me doesn’t usually turn your stomach. What else is wrong with you this mornin’?”

“I’m just worn out.” Finally she looked at him. “I think my flux is coming on, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Women’s monthlies were a mystery he’d never pretended to understand. “Why don’t you go back to bed? Maybe I’ll bring you some tea.”

“No, no. Go on about your day’s appointments. I’ll just sleep late.”

He let go of her wrist with an abrupt little shove. She didn’t want coddling, but sometimes he forgot that. She didn’t want him around any more than she could help.

“Get on back to bed, then,” he ordered. “And give yourself a rest from that damned Salazar.”

She laughed shortly, her voice cracking, and fled out the door. By the time Justis finished dressing, she was curled on her side under the covers, sound asleep. He stood next to the bed and watched her in miserable uncertainty. She was unhappy. It was more than just the problem they’d had yesterday, something much more.

Salazar
.

O
VER THE NEXT
few days Katherine felt Justis watching her closely, and she put on a good show of acting as if everything were fine. As in months past they had an understanding—she would tell him when her flux ended, and until then they would just hold each other companionably at night, warm and intimate in a different way, a way that always made her feel secure and happy.

But not this time. Worry gnawed at her. She avoided Adela by pleading headaches; above all she avoided Vittorio. She found it necessary to nap often, not for the kind of escape she had needed after Justis had rescued her from the trail, but because she was more tired than ordinary.

Finally she was forced to admit the truth. After Justis left one morning she rushed into the dressing room and threw up in the basin. She removed her nightgown and stared at herself in the mirror. Already her breasts felt
swollen. She hadn’t had her flux this month, nor the last one. How much longer before the changes became obvious?

She braced her arms on the washstand and leaned toward the drawn, hollow-eyed face in the mirror. “I’m carrying a babe,” she whispered tearfully. “And even if Justis believes it’s his, he won’t want it.”

T
HOMAS MET HIM
in a quiet alcove off one of the main halls. “You’d be wantin’ to see me, Mr. Gallatin, sir?”

Justis nodded. “You know everything that goes on in this hotel and half the what-all that goes on in New York.”

The porter grinned. “That’d be true, sir.”

“What do you know about Vittorio Salazar, the Mex upstairs?”

Thomas shuffled his feet and looked awkward. “The one who squires your wife about?”

“Yeah.” Justis gritted his teeth. “That’s him.”

“I’ve never seen anything improper-like pass between them, sir, I swear it. I would have told you for sure if I had.” He paused to pull a plug of tobacco from one pocket. He kept his eyes on it as he fumbled with a pocket knife, trying to cut a piece from the plug. Almost sheepishly he added, “I know a lot about his habits, sir. So I didn’t worry about your wife bein’ seduced. You shouldn’t either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Salazar’s the kind what likes to be seen with a lady but beds only a whore.”

Justis looked at the porter closely. “Has he got himself a doxy or two?”

“About a dozen, sir. I’ve snuck ’em into the hotel for him.”

“What makes you so sure he wants only the hired pieces?”

The porter’s face turned dark red. “He’s got strange appetites, sir. Some-of the whores won’t go back a second time. He’s not wantin’ the kind of pleasure a lady would give.”

“How so?”

A look of revulsion settled in Thomas’s eyes. “He ties ’em up and beats ’em.”

“I’ll be damned.” Justis leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, waiting for the nausea to settle in his stomach. He tried to comprehend Salazar’s sort of pleasure. He’d heard of men who liked that kind, but he’d never run across one before.

“I wouldn’t be tellin’ my wife, sir, if I was you. The Mex is fine with ladies—I’d swear on a stack of Bibles to that. In a way you oughta bless him for bein’ an odd sonuvadevil. No need to worry about him askin’ your wife to lay down with him. Beggin’ your pardon for even the thought of it, sir.”

Justis tucked a coin in the fancy braided pocket of Thomas’s livery jacket. “What else do the doxies tell you about his habits?”

“He, umm, he never does anything but the beating. Uses a little leather whip. Never even takes off his clothes, they say. His favorite girls are the ones who cry and beg—the more they plead the more he likes it. He told one of ’em that he was born and raised in Spain, sir, but a scandal drove him to the Californias as a young man. He never let on what the scandal was, sir, but meself suspects that his family found out about his cruel streak. So now he’s careful to hide it.”

Justis mulled over the information for a moment. Katherine might love the sly bastard, but she’d never get anything except fancy talk and companionship from him. In the long run that wouldn’t suit her, not with her
fiery passion in bed. He recalled that Salazar was a widower whose wife had died in childbirth—her only childbirth despite many years of marriage. He’d bet gold that the Mex’s dislike for normal relations had been the reason.

Relief washed over him, and he slapped Thomas jovially on the back. “You’ve set my mind at ease. God bless you, you ugly Irishman.”

The porter laughed. “I bless you back. We ugly Irishmen have to be stickin’ together, sir.”

T
HIS INDECISION WAS
the worst kind of torture, Katherine thought. She dressed, did her hair, and forced herself to accompany Adela to lunch. When she returned to the suite she felt better, and hoped she’d have a respite from the sickness and fatigue. She had to ponder her problems while she was strong.

How would Justis react when she told him about the babe? Would he take a moment to remember the times when they hadn’t been careful, when one or both of them had let passion rule common sense? Those times had been few, but with a man who radiated potency as Justis did, even one would have been more than adequate.

Or would he accuse her of unfaithfulness and say that her condition was proof? She had known Vittorio for nearly two months and had, of her own free choice, seen him almost daily.

She stared out a window in the sleeping chamber, gazing at the rainswept sky of early fall. The world was bleak both inside and out. She wanted the babe. God help her, she’d have to refuse if Justis asked her to rid herself of it. She knew how to expel it—there were medicines available that even married women could use quite respectably. Sometimes they were dangerous and half the
time they didn’t work, but with her knowledge of drugs she could make certain of success.

No. She shook her head and hugged herself tightly. She’d have the babe even if Justis ended their arrangement because of it. He would leave her anyway, eventually. At least this way she’d keep a bit of his soul with her.

There, then. She was still miserable, but at least part of the problem was decided. Now all she had to do was convince Justis that he was the father. Otherwise his pride and vanity would demand frontier-style revenge. She choked at the thought that he’d go to the gallows for killing Salazar if she failed.

She jumped when she heard the parlor door opening. “Katie, gal, are you back there?” Justis’s deep, drawling voice rang through the suite with more good cheer than she’d heard in days.

“Yes?”

“We’ve got a letter from Rebecca and Sam!”

She ran into the parlor. He tossed his hat and long frock coat onto a chair and stood there, looking outrageously handsome in snug black trousers, a gray silk vest, and a white shirt and cravat. His hair and mustache were nearly back to their handsome, wickedly shaggy selves.