To Dream Again (53 page)

Tess watched the door close behind him. Continue her journey? He sounded as if he wanted her to leave as quickly as possible. She should, of course, but crossing France on foot had been harrowing and exhausting. During her three months of traveling, she'd slept in clean inns, then in dirty inns, and finally, when she'd run out of money for lodgings, she’d slept in ditches. She'd accepted rides in wagons until one farmer discovered that she wasn't a man and tried to rape her. From then on, she had walked, walked until her feet blistered, and she couldn't take another step. She'd bought food when she could afford it, then stolen it when she couldn't. Now, she was at the southern coast of France with almost no money left. Continue her journey? Where could she go?

Tess very much feared the answer was nowhere. To avoid dwelling on that fact, she rose and examined the clothes he had brought her. They were fine, the clothes of a wealthy woman, but several years out of fashion. Though clean, they smelled musty, with a faint tinge of lemon verbena. She wondered who they belonged to.

She used the water in the basin, bathing as well as she could, then pulled on the linen chemise, petticoat, and silk stockings. The high-waisted dress of blue muslin accommodated her pregnancy easily but was much too long. Not for the first time, Tess wished she were taller, and she knew she would have to be careful not to trip.

Her bedchamber was large, but simply furnished, with walls of whitewashed stone, carved oak furnishings, and a few rugs of hand-knotted wool rugs. There were two doors leading out of the room. One, she discovered, led into a corridor, and the other opened into a much smaller room, a dressing room. It was empty, save for a few white shirts and black trousers hanging on hooks. This was apparently Monsieur Dumond's room.

Closing the door, she rested her hand on her rounded stomach and returned her attention to her problem, for it had to be faced. What was she going to do next? She was five months into her pregnancy, and for the baby's sake, she doubted she could go much farther. She could only hope she had run far enough to hide from the authorities.

She thought again of Alexandre Dumond. Would he her stay here until her baby came? He seemed kind enough, for he had taken her in and cared for her, but now that she was well again, he probably wanted her gone, especially if he were the recluse he was rumored to be. And even if he let her stay here, would he expect some kind of payment in exchange? Or worse, was he a man like Nigel? She shuddered, remembering how she had once thought Nigel to be kind.

Suddenly, without warning, the baby moved. It was only a tiny flutter, but it was enough to remind her that it didn't matter if Monsieur Dumond were kind. As long as he didn't beat her, she knew her best option was to remain here, if he would allow it. “I won't let anything happen to you, my baby,” she promised, cradling her belly protectively with her hand. “I swear it.”

She grasped a fold of muslin in her hand and wondered what woman had worn this dress. She thought of Monsieur Dumond's unkept garden, crumbling castle, and torn clothes. She wondered why he seemed to have no servants. She thought of the rumors surrounding him and wondered what secrets hid behind those enigmatic dark eyes.

Suddenly, she had an idea.

***

Alexandre leaned his back against the stone wall of the courtyard and stared at the weeds flourishing between the paving stones. In his mind's eye was a picture of violet eyes and a blue muslin dress and lavender in bloom. He closed his eyes and fought back, struggling until the image disappeared.

It was the dress. He should have given all her clothes away. But he had not been able to give away any of Anne-Marie's things. Her dresses still hung in the armoire of her bedchamber, her undergarments still lay in her chest of drawers, her jewel case still sat on the bedside table covered with dust. It had been three years since Alexandre had been in her bedchamber, three years since she had died there. After the funeral, he had stepped out of that room and locked the door, never opening it again. Until today.

“Monsieur Dumond?”

Alexandre opened his eyes. There was the dress again, on the wrong woman. He straightened away from the wall, coming out of his reverie with difficulty, trying not to look at her. “You should be resting, mademoiselle,” he said, fixing his eyes on the lavender blooming in the courtyard.

“Tess.”

“
Pardon
?” He looked at her then. The dress hung on her thin frame, except around the gentle swell of her abdomen, and the hem swept the ground. There was a bit of color in her cheeks, though, and her eyes, dark green and huge, were clear as they met his.

“My name is Tess.” She gave him no last name. Instead, she turned away and looked about her. “Your gardener should be dismissed.”

Over her shoulder, she cast him an inquiring glance, probing for information that he had no intention of providing. “I will make a note of it.”

She straightened her shoulders and turned toward him. “Monsieur, thank you for your help. I am grateful. Truly, I don't know what I would have done if you had not found me.”

He shrugged, but he did not answer.

“I realize you know nothing about me, but as you can see, I am…” She paused as if searching for the right words. “I am in trouble.”

If she hoped for chivalry, she’d be disappointed.

“I'm concerned about my child,” she went on in the wake of his silence. “I don't know what to do.”

“I would think the solution to your problem would be obvious, mademoiselle. Go home.”

Her face went pale, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of the fear that had been so evident during her illness. She shook her head. “I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I have no home,” she answered in a low voice, turning her face away as if to hide her expression.

So that was the way of it? He had guessed as much. A harsh father who had thrown her out of the house, a dishonorable lover who had refused to marry her, and a family scandal. “What will you do, then?”

She met his gaze and took a deep breath. Instead of answering, she asked, “You live alone here, monsieur? No family? No servants?”

He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

Tess continued, “I would be very grateful if you would allow me to stay. I could keep house and—”

“No.” The word was flat, unemotional, and final.

“I know how to run a household, monsieur.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, “but I need no one to run my household.” The last word was said with deliberate mockery as he gestured to the overgrown courtyard. “I prefer it as it is.”

“I could cook for you.”

“I cook for myself.”

“Perhaps I could tend your garden?”

He glanced down pointedly at her swollen abdomen. “Not for long.”

Heat stained her cheeks, but she still didn't give up. “Well, I could mend your clothes, then.” She gestured toward his torn shirt. “That's something you obviously can't do for yourself. And I can clean and keep house for you. I beg your pardon if this sounds rude, but you seem to need a housekeeper. And I need a place to stay.”

He folded his arms across his chest and met her eyes. “You do not seem to understand, mademoiselle. I don't want you here.”

“I won't cause you any trouble. Please, monsieur, please let me stay.”

He stared at her long and hard, giving nothing away. When he spoke, his voice was harsh even to his own ears. “Why should I?”

“Because,” she said simply, “I have nowhere else to go.”

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Conor’s Way

Chapter One

Northern Louisiana, 1871

When Conor Branigan ducked under the ropes and entered the ring, the men of Callersville knew he was just too pretty to be a good fighter. Women, of course, would have expressed a rather different opinion of the matter, but no women were there. As it was, the men of Callersville took one look at Conor's lean body and handsome face, and decided they had a sure winner in their local champion.

Conor paused in the center of the ring and responded to the boos and whistles that greeted him, the outsider, with an impudent salute just for show. Then he sauntered over to his corner of the ring and prepared to wait while the bookmaker's clerk took the last bets. His blue eyes scanned the rowdy Friday-night crowd without noticing any face in particular. After twenty towns and twenty fights in seventy days, all the faces looked the same— shiny with sweat, eager for the fight, and anonymous.

But Conor didn't mind that. Life on the boxing circuit suited him. If he won the fight tonight, he'd celebrate his victory by taking a hot bath, smoking a strong cigar, and sharing a bottle of good Irish with some carmine-lipped angel of mercy who asked for nothing more than a dollar bill and a kiss good-bye. Tomorrow, he'd move on to the next town and the next fight.

No ties, no family, no commitments. That was Conor's life now. And that was the way he liked it.

A round of cheers went up as his opponent entered the tent, and Conor turned to watch Elroy Harlan make his way through the crowd. The reigning champion of Jackson Parish and the odds-on favorite was a huge, hulking wall of a man who stepped into the ring amid the encouraging shouts of his friends and neighbors.

Conor figured that Elroy outweighed him by a good forty pounds, but he knew from experience the big ones were usually too slow. If Elroy had a build similar to his own, Conor might have been worried, but when Elroy moved to his own corner and scowled at him across the ring, Conor just leaned back against the ropes and gave the other man a deliberately provoking smile. Provoked men got angry.

"Irish son of a bitch," Elroy snarled.

Conor's grin widened. Angry men made mistakes.

Prizefighting was just a job, a way to make a living. It wasn't fun, but it was better than gutting fish in Boston or cleaning up horse dung in the streets of New York twelve hours a day for a pittance wage. It was better than swinging a sledgehammer under the hot sun on the railroad line. Conor worked only two nights a week, five months a year, and the rest of the time, he was free. He answered to no one, he needed no one. Yes, life on the boxing circuit suited him just fine.

"Getting a bit cocky, aren't you?"

Dan Sweeney's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Conor turned his head to give his manager a careless shrug. "I can't help it, Danny. Look at the man. I probably won't even have to hit him. I'll just dance around him until he's so dizzy, he just falls down."

Conor's style of boxing was something the two men had often joked about, but this time, Dan didn't laugh. Instead, he glanced around, then leaned closer, resting his forearms on the ropes between them. "Odds are in, boyo."

"And?"

Dan rubbed one hand across his jaw. "No surprise. Elroy's the heavy favorite. But all the bets on him have been small, each no more'n a dollar or two." Dan paused, then added, "On the other hand, a couple rich men are up here from New Orleans. Saw you fight at Shaugnessey's last spring, and they've bet the limit on you. Five hundred each."

"Then they'll be even richer pretty soon."

But Dan shook his head. "No, lad. The bookmaker had a wee talk with me, and he's made it clear he'd rather not pay out that kind of money, if you take my meaning."

Conor did. If Elroy won, the payouts would be many, but paltry, and the bookmaker would make a nice profit on the bets of the two men from New Orleans. If Conor won, only those two men would walk away winners, but the bookmaker would lose a lot of money. He met Dan's eyes and said it aloud. "He wants me to go down."

"Let's just say it'll be healthier for us all if Elroy wins this one."

Conor smiled again, a benign smile. "Over my dead body."

Dan scowled at him. "That could happen," he muttered. "Don't be stupid."

The referee beckoned Conor forward, indicating that the fight was about to begin, and Dan stepped back. Conor straightened away from the rope and moved toward the center of the ring as he unbuttoned his shirt. Dan was right. He'd never been ordered to go down before, but he knew if he defied the bookmaker, he was asking for trouble. He might make it out of the tent, he might even make it out of town, but he wouldn't get much further than that. Better to just let old Elroy sneak in a punch that would send him down to the floor. Easier. Safer.

Conor shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it to land in the corner behind him. Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd at the scars that scored his chest and back, and Conor responded to the stares and speculative whispers as he always did. He ignored them.

But his outward calm was a deception. There were some who thought those scars were badges of valor and courage, but Conor knew the truth. He felt the old familiar hatred stir deep within him as he remembered the men who had given him the scars. Men who had stripped away everything he was, piece by bloody piece, until he had become what they wanted, until he had become the very thing he hated most. Now, he kept that hate buried deep, hidden by a cocksure smile and an arrogant confidence, but it never left him.

Some things never change
, he thought, as he waited for the referee to signal the beginning of the fight. This wasn't Ireland, but there were still men who demanded his subjugation, men who wanted to own him, use him. Rebellion flared, sudden and hot.

The referee drew the line of powdered chalk in the dust. Toe the line, gentlemen!" he shouted, and jumped out of the way. "No kicking, no gouging, no biting."

The rosary of the prizefighter. A litany Conor heard twice a week from May to September.
Hail Mary
, he thought, and ducked as Elroy swung at him with a ham- sized fist.
And going down be damned
.

The fist sailed over his head. Conor straightened, then punched hard, left to the ribs, right to the jaw, left to the ribs again, but he jumped back before an answering blow could touch him.