To Seduce a Rogue (24 page)

Laughing to himself, he pulled his key from his pocket. Adam had taken to locking the office door. His boss was a city man, and Gerald knew he couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Of course, if it made Adam feel better, everything tied up safe and sound, all the better then.

Adam and Miles were so close in age, hell, Gerald was old enough to be the boy’s father. And, like an old dog...no new tricks for him, either.

His heart jumped when he stepped to the boardwalk. The
Sentinel’s
door was wide open. He crossed the distance in three brisk strides and rushed inside.

And pulled to an abrupt standstill, his eyes rounding. His gaze swept past it all: papers on the floor, Adam’s desk on its side, the new inkwell Gerald had purchased sitting beside it in two large pieces, a puddle of black ink congealing under it.

The press
.

He raced to it, running his hands along the smooth metal surfaces. The cylinders looked to be intact, the racks of lead type undisturbed. The newspapers he’d left on the press were now on the floor. Gerald squatted, groaning as his bad knee popped. The newspapers, some still bound with string, other gaping like a raw wound, had been slashed, destroyed. Why had they left the press alone? He pushed himself to his feet. It was going to be a long day. A long week.

He didn’t quite know what to do; clean up as much as he could and get a message to Adam? Thank the Maker the boy had gone home.

He had gone home, hadn’t he?

He wiped his hand over his eyes. Overturned desks, scattered papers.

Overturned desks. As a sinking feeling crept into his stomach, he walked cautiously behind the desk. The tall side stood maybe three feet off the floor. Sure enough, Adam lay next to it, on his side, pushed against the wooden legs. That was why Gerald hadn’t seen him at first.

Gerald felt tears prick his eyes, thinking the boy looked lifeless. Dead.
No
. Gerald could see Adam’s chest rising and falling beneath a bloody, torn shirt. The shirt had once been black. Now it was a deep, dark red.

He stooped and rolled Adam to his back as gently as he could. Gerald sucked in a sharp breath as he got a look at the boy’s face. A wide ring of purple, the skin swollen and bruised, surrounded one eye. Gerald lifted a clump of matted hair lying like a limp rag on Adam’s forehead. A nasty gash that was more than likely the source of the blood, lay open. Blood seeped, trailing down Adam’s face.

Gerald sighed as he opened the buttons on Adam’s shirt. An enormous bruise that probably meant cracked ribs. The knuckles on the boy’s right hand were bruised and swollen. Gerald grunted. Good. He had given as good as he got.

Adam stirred slightly and moaned.

“Adam?”

Another moan.

Gerald had raised a rambunctious, always-injured son, but head wounds. Oh, so much blood. Gerald turned and gasped, drawing a deep, clear breath.

“Don’t go...retching...on me...old man.” Adam’s dark eyes opened, barely. Pain twisted his face, but at least he was conscious.

“Just rest easy. Everything will be all right.”

Adam swallowed, his mouth opening then closing. He tried again. “Charlie.”

Gerald frowned. “Charlie? Charlie isn’t here.”

Adam closed his eyes and swallowed again. His voice was so faint that Gerald had to lean down to hear his words. “I know. Go...go check on her. They might...might have gone there.”

“
What
?”

Adam lifted his hand, then let it drop to the floor. “Just go,” he breathed.

“Will you be all right?”

Adam nodded, too exhausted to reply. He heard Gerald’s rapid footsteps, then the slam of the door. He
would
be all right. His face felt battered and misshapen; his body ached beyond belief. God, his chest. It felt like someone had beaten a hammer against it. That was not far from the truth. Boots, hammers, what was the difference? The only redeeming pain he felt was the pain in his hand.

Eaton would be proud of him.

The boyhood lessons had sure as hell come in handy.

Compunction

Uneasiness or hesitation about the rightness of an action.

“Jared Chase,” she said, her breath caressing his cheek, “what have I gotten us into?” She pressed the wet cloth against his face.

He inhaled, then whispered, “Roses.”

She didn’t utter so much as a squeak. She couldn’t just yet. His voice was ragged. Blood smeared all over him, his lovely skin torn and bruised. She felt like she was suffocating, each breath painful. “Gerald, where do you suppose Doc Olden is?”

“I don’t know. Miles is trying to find him.” Gerald turned in a slow circle, surveying the destruction in the office. “A knife, Charlie. They brought a knife.”

“They were playing for keeps, weren’t they?” Tears pricked her lids. She hadn’t felt like crying in a long time.

“The knife. Mine.”

Her hand clenched around the rag, squeezing drops of water on Adam’s chest. “That knife...that knife is
yours
?”

He nodded slowly, then grimaced from the effort.

She grimaced with him. “Do you want to sit up?”

“Yes.” He bent his arms, placing his palms flat against the floor. Charlie wrapped her arm around him and assisted until he leaned weakly against the wall. He swallowed and reached to rub his chest. “Whiskey. Desk. Bottom drawer.”

She opened the drawer, which was not an easy task as the desk lay on its side. The same flask he had placed in her hand the day of the picnic sat amidst a dozen pencils. She grabbed the canister, noticing for the first time the letter
E
burned into the leather casing. Could this be Eaton’s?

She felt a frown pull as she squatted beside Adam: knees raised, elbows propped on them, head bowed against his arms. She felt an alarming pulse of guilt rush through her. She had done this to him as surely as if she had thrown the punches.

“Here,” she murmured, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. She touched the flask to his calf.

He raised his head, blinked at her once, and took the flask from her outstretched hand. She watched his throat constrict as he drank.

“Do you think you should be drinking?”

“I most...certainly do.”

“We’ve called for the doctor—”

“
No
doctor.”

She gasped. “
Yes
, doctor.” If he only knew how he looked.

He slanted a shrewd glance her way, the ring encircling his eye as vivid as a sunset. His face did look better—she’d cleaned off much of the blood—but his head still bled, and his clothes were beyond repair. And Gerald had mentioned possible broken ribs.

“How is that...old fool going to...help me?” His hand shook as he took another drink.

She couldn’t argue with the old fool part. She gestured to his head. “You need stitches.”

He regarded her with a resigned expression, then something on her face made him laugh. Almost immediately, his face paled. “Outside. Can’t breath. In here.”

She didn’t argue, just helped him up. Gerald turned to watch them lumber along, Charlie’s hand at Adam’s back.

At the door, Adam pushed her away. She took a deep breath as tears threatened, pricking angrily behind her lids. She didn’t know what to say to him. What to do. God, she had made a mess of things. An incredible mess. He had tried to tell her what this business was like. How dangerous it could be. She hadn’t believed it, hadn’t believed Stokes would operate that way.

But, he
did
operate that way.

Charlie felt the anger ripple through her. She dug her nails into her palms. Oliver Stokes wouldn’t get away with this.

* * *

From Widow Davis’ kitchen window, Charlie watched the old woman walk to the garden, a basket hanging from her arm, a black and gray cat clinging to her legs like jam on bread. She looked back once just to make sure. Widow Davis, on her knees in the dirt. How fast could her chaperone make it back?

Not as fast as Charlie could make it up to Chase’s bedroom.

Before she lost her nerve, she placed her cup in the dry sink and raced from the room. Tiptoeing up the stairs leading to the bedrooms, she held her breath for fear someone would hear her. She stopped when she heard Doc Olden’s raspy voice: bed rest and liquids, no heavy lifting for a month, no horseback riding for two weeks.

“Two weeks...off my horse? Are you insane?” Chase’s voice was groggy. She wondered what Doc Olden had given him.

“No, Mr. Chase, I am in full control of my faculties this morning. You, on the other hand, have cracked ribs and a gash on your head that will leave a nasty scar, even with ten moderately neat stitches. Not to mention the various abrasions quite odd for a fight with a printing press. But, what do I know? I’m just an old drunkard.” She heard Doc Olden snap his bag shut.

“Call me if there are any complications, and for God’s sake, keep the bandage around your chest for at least two weeks. Tied as tightly as you can stand.”

Charlie ducked around the corner as the doctor left the room. As soon as the front door slammed, she crept from her hiding place. Chase was going to be okay. She had to get downstairs before Widow Davis discovered her duplicity.

“You didn’t sneak all the way up here...just for that, did you?”

Charlie stopped cold, expelled a disgusted breath and pushed open the door to his room. He was half-sitting, half-leaning against the headboard in what she would call an indisposed crumple. Dr. Olden had tied a thin bandage around his head and a thick, ugly one around his chest. She couldn’t help noticing the dark hairs that peeked from the top of the glaringly white dressing. Jerking her gaze up, she ran directly into his mocking stare. His white teeth flashed as he smiled, and then he actually had the audacity to laugh.

A diluted, painful laugh that nonetheless provoked.

“Stop it.” She shot a quick glance over her shoulder. “Do you want Widow Davis to come up here and find me?”

He shrugged carefully. “Might be interesting.” His head slumped to the pillow behind his back. Like wax dripping down a melting candle, his words blurred. He looked worn and bruised. He needed sleep.

She leaned and swept her fingers along the side of his face. He closed his eyes as a sigh escaped him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Chase.” She turned to leave, her heart thudding in her chest. Oh, how she wanted to stay with him, hold his hand and watch him sleep. Make sure he didn’t wake in the night, dreams of his brother tormenting him.

“Charlie?”

She wanted to keep walking, knew she should, but his tone was so soft, so different than usual, so...
warm
. His eyes were open just enough to distinguish their color. Liquid brown, like the most delicious chocolate.

“The editorial was...excellent. It was good enough...to run. I just wanted...you to know.” A silly smile sat upon his face, as if he had not just given her the most indescribable compliment.

Before he could say more to confuse her, she mumbled an abrupt, “Thank you, Chase,” and disappeared like a puff of smoke from his doorway.