My Heart's Desire Page 7

  In the alleys behind the brownstone mansions, cats jumped out of the way as the chase quickened. In the stables at the rear, horses snorted and shifted nervously in their stalls. One stray dog alerted his chained friends, and the resulting cacophony had sleepy servants stumbling outside to scold them all and shoo the stray. The neighborhood was waking up, and dawn had yet to make its presence felt.

  Rennie raised her skirts and clambered over the fence between the Marshalls' and the Stewarts'. Her gown caught in the decorative but dangerous iron spikes. She pulled hard, ripping her dress, but not enough to free herself. It was where Jarret found her.

  He leaned against the fence, catching his breath, grateful for the chance to do so. When Rennie yanked on her gown again he merely reached through the fence, grabbed a handful of material and held on. Running had made his voice husky. "Don't try my patience any more than you already have," he said.

  Rennie gulped for breath herself. "Are you threatening me?"

  "Yes." Jarret was pleased to find that shut her up. He climbed the fence and dropped down lightly beside her. "I'm unhooking you, and then we're going right back to the house. There will be no running attempts on the way because I'll carry you if I have to. If you're so all fire anxious to see that Banks fellow, then I'll arrange it tomorrow. I don't believe it's escaped your notice, though, that he hasn't exactly been beating down the door to see you."

  "Don't talk about him! You have no right!"

  Jarret shrugged. He freed her gown, expecting no thanks and getting none. "Let's go. I'm tired even if you're not."

  The voice that came out of the darkness was deep and clear and demanding. "What the hell is going on here?"

  Jarret stepped protectively in front of Rennie. He dropped his hand casually to his holster only to realize he wasn't wearing one. At least he knew the man wasn't Nathaniel Houston. There would have been no time to consider going for his gun.

  "Michael? Is that you?" The speaker moved from the deep shadows of the back porch to the lawn. He lowered the Colt .45 he was carrying as he neared the couple.

  Rennie stepped out from behind Jarret. "It's Mary Renee, Mr. Marshall. Michael's sister."

  Logan Marshall slipped his gun into the waistband of his trousers. The tails of his nightshirt were bunched there as well. "Rennie? My God, it's been a while, hasn't it? You and your sister are still a matched pair." His eyes dropped to her flat abdomen. "Well, perhaps not so much at the moment." He caught her embarrassed glance again. "Is this something you want to tell me about or should I pretend I'm having a very strange dream?"

  Rennie peered sideways at Jarret. He didn't even have the grace to look abashed. He was standing in Logan Marshall's yard wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans and looking for all the world as if he had every right to be there. Rennie's deep green eyes were imploring. "I think we'd all do better to say we've been dreaming."

  Jarret smirked.

  Logan caught Jarret's derisive smile, then looked at Rennie again. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded. "Yes. I'm fine. I may have acted a bit precipitously tonight."

  Logan raked his copper-threaded hair with his fingers. He knew Rennie's explanation wasn't meant for him but as an apology to the man at her side. He didn't think the stranger believed it. "Everything is all right at your house?"

  "Yes. In fact we're going back now."

  Logan glanced at the fence behind her. A swatch of white material from her underskirt fluttered on one of the spikes like a small flag of surrender. "Rennie, are you certain I don't need to send for the police? I know about Nate Houston's escape. The Chronicle received a telegram from Ethan Stone a few days ago. He wanted it kept out of the paper until Jay Mac told your sister personally. That's all been taken care of, hasn't it?"

  Belatedly Jarret recognized Logan Marshall as the publisher and co-owner of one of New York's foremost newspapers, as well as Michael Dennehy's employer. He had expected the force behind the Chronicle to be older, not of an equal age to him and Ethan, and certainly not so physically formidable. Marshall was tall enough to return Jarret's stare and possessed of both the muscular strength and sharp agility to take him on in Rennie's defense.

  Jarret was aware of Logan's wary regard as well. The publisher was taking measure of the man who'd been vaulting fences in pursuit of Rennie Dennehy. Jarret began to feel a bit uncomfortable under Logan's scrutiny. Didn't Rennie have any common neighbors? Was everyone a Marshall or an Astor?

  Rennie realized that at three o'clock in the morning she owed Logan Marshall a little more explanation than good manners had him requesting. "This is Mr. Jarret Sullivan, Mr. Marshall."

  Jarret couldn't think of anything else to do save hold out his hand. "Ethan Stone's deputy," he said.

  Logan shook the offered hand. "The bounty hunter?"

  Jarret nodded, aware of Rennie's start of surprise beside him. "Sometimes that. Right now a federal deputy."

  Releasing his hand, Logan frowned slightly. "Rennie, I thought Michael told me you were marrying Hollis Banks today... yesterday..." He rubbed his temple a moment. "God, it's the middle of tomorrow already."

  "Michael got married instead," she said.

  "To Hollis Banks?" He was having a bad dream.

  "No, to Ethan Stone. We just came from the wedding."

  "More or less," Jarret muttered, looking down at his attire.

  Logan held up both hands. "Never mind. I'm sure this all makes sense to you, but I'm going back to bed. I'll think of something to tell Katy." He nodded to both of them. "Good night. Oh, and you can use the gate. No sense risking impalement a second time in one night."

  Rennie's smile was weak. When he was gone she looked down at the ground and prayed to be swallowed whole by some freakish shift in the earth's mantle. Wisps of hair fluttered across her forehead as she heaved a sigh. "That may be the single most humiliating encounter of my life," she said.

  "That's only because the night's still young." Jarret locked his arm around Rennie's and forced her to match his quick stride. Her protests about being dragged and yanked and pulled like saltwater taffy were given no response. Inside the house he marched her directly upstairs, past her bedchamber and into his.

  Rennie pointed behind her. "Wait! You've missed my room."

  "No, I didn't. For tonight at least, this is your room." He pointed to the oval braided rug in front of the fireplace. "And that's your bed."

  She tried to pull away from him. "I'm not sleeping on the floor!"

  He held her fast. "Suit yourself. But know this, Miss Dennehy, I've spent the better part of three days sitting in the cramped confines of a rail car, and before that a few days sitting in a saddle, neither of which were particularly conducive to sleeping. Except for a few hours here and there, I haven't had a full night's shut-eye in over a week. I'm taking the bed. You've got the floor. And I don't give a good damn whether you sleep or not."

  Jarret let Rennie's arm go only to hunker down and take a fistful of her underskirt. Before she knew what he was about he tore a strip that took the entire hem.

  She was too startled to scream. "What do you think you're doing?" Rennie backed away from the hint of feral pleasure in Jarret's eyes as he straightened. She nervously pushed aside a strand of dark red hair that had fallen across her cheek, and her eyes darted toward the door. She held out her arms toward him off as he approached. "What are you going to do with that?"

  Jarret didn't answer. He simply moved forward, holding the strip of cloth taut between his hands, and waited. Rennie backed right into the heavy armchair behind her and plopped down with a faint "oof." Her eyes widened with surprise, and she clumsily tried to pull herself out again. Her tattered underskirt and gown tangled in her legs and confounded her efforts. Jarret grabbed her flailing hands in one of his and quickly tied her wrists together. It was not much different than roping a calf, but Jarret refrained from making the comparison.

  When he had her trussed to his satisfaction, he slid the braided rug across t
he floor until it rested next to the bed. Pulling Rennie by her tether, deaf to her entreaties, he managed to tie the open end of the leash to one of the foot legs of the bed. Rennie had little choice but to fall on her knees or be bent awkwardly and painfully at the waist.

  Jarret tossed a blanket at her and deliberated about a pillow. Finally he gave her his. "Guess it don't matter much," he said, deliberately goading her by affecting a lazy drawl. "I'm used to sleepin' without one most nights. Sure was a treat, though."

  Her emerald eyes glittered as she glared at him. "Go to hell, Mr. Sullivan."

  "Jarret. Seein' that we're sharing a room and all, it makes sense to call me Jarret."

  She kicked at him. It was a useless gesture that resulted in Rennie banging the crown of her own head against the bed frame. Tears sprang to her eyes, partly out of pain, partly from the sheer frustration of not being able to rub the tender spot herself.

  Jarret patted her lightly on the head and leaped onto the bed as she tried to bite him. Laughing, he stretched out on the bed, turned back the oil lamp, and rolled on his side, slipping one arm under his head.

  "Good night, Rennie."

  "I haven't given you leave to use my Christian name."

  In the darkness Jarret smiled. He pulled a blanket over his shoulders and rubbed his cold feet against the sheets. "Good night, Miss Dennehy."

  Rennie seethed. When anger alone could not sustain wakefulness, she tossed and turned as much as her bonds would permit. She tore at the knots with her fingernails for the better part of an hour before she admitted that she couldn't loosen them. Through it all Jarret slept peacefully, occasionally emitting a soft snore as if to remind her he was still there.

  Against her will, against all reason, Rennie found herself struggling harder to stay awake than to get away. She heard the grandfather clock in the entrance hall strike four, then the half-hour. It was the last thing she remembered.

  * * *

  Jarret stood over Rennie. His hair curled damply at the nape. He wiped a bead of water from his chin with the towel that was draped around his neck. He picked up a chambray shirt at the foot of the bed and slipped it on. Rennie didn't stir.

  She had found, it seemed, the only position that could have offered her a modicum of comfort. She was curled on her side, knees drawn close to her chest. Her face rested precariously close to the bedpost, and her hands were actually wrapped around it. Even in profile he could see the shadows beneath her lashes and knew her rest had been much less satisfactory than his.

  He grimaced when he saw the abrasions on her wrists. Her navy blue gown was twisted around her, the sleeve torn at the elbow. The length of her calves was visible where she had kicked off the blanket. Her stockings had a few snags and tears in them, and her ankle boots were caked with mud at the heel and toe.

  During the night, or during the fight—Jarret wasn't sure when—most of her hair had been loosed from its pins. There was a tangle of auburn waves and dark copper strands across her pale cheek. A bit of greenery near her ear gave evidence of one of the many hedges she had barreled through. If the truth were told, she looked rather worse for the wear.

  But that was only if he didn't take her mouth into account, and that was something Jarret couldn't quite keep himself from doing. In sleep, Rennie's lips were faintly damp, slightly parted, and enticingly full. He found himself very intrigued by the shape of her mouth, with its vaguely pouting lower lip and sensual curve for the upper one. Mary Renee's mouth could make a man forget he was courting trouble just considering kissing her.

  Jarret reached for his valise and rooted through it until he found his buck knife. He unsheathed it and knelt beside Rennie to cut her bonds. He was leaning over her, the knife poised next to her hands, mere inches away from her face, when Rennie woke.

  Jarret was close enough to feel Rennie's chest heave as she gulped in air. He managed to get a hand over her mouth before her scream reached a glass-shattering pitch. Her struggles forced him to toss aside the knife before he hurt her with it.

  He spoke to her gently. "I want to let you go. There's no reason to scream. I'm not going to hurt you."

  She couldn't breathe. His hand covered her mouth and nose, and the pressure cut off her air. She shook her head and struggled harder, trying to get him to dislodge his hand. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She clawed at the bedpost, and the knots were pulled more tightly on her wrists.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh knocked on the door to Jarret's room. "Mr. Sullivan, are you in there? I'm looking for Rennie. I can't find"—she opened the door a crack and poked her head in—"her anywhere."

  Jarret's hand slipped from Rennie's mouth as the cook screamed. He sat back on his haunches, shaking his head and gazing heavenward. Rennie sucked in great draughts of air and began tearing a strip into him that would have put a sailor to shame.

  Jarret picked up his knife, tossed it on the bed, and stood. He left Rennie where she was and walked directly past the hysterical Mrs. Cavanaugh. "Less bawling than this in a Chicago stockyard," he muttered disgustedly.

  Chapter 3

  Mrs. Cavanaugh rushed in the room as soon as Jarret exited. "Has he hurt you?" She dropped to her knees beside Rennie and stroked her hair. "What was he doing? Has he lost his mind?" She crossed herself. "Saints! That your mother could have just gone off and left you. Sure, and I'll never understand. I'm getting the mister right now and sending him for the constabulary. I'm not leaving you alone with Mr. Sullivan anymore."

  Rennie summoned patience. It was clear to her now that Jarret never intended her any harm, not that what he had done was in any way forgivable, but he hadn't had murder as his motive. "Could you release me, Mrs. Cavanaugh?" she asked, indicating her bound wrists.

  The cook's hand fell away from Rennie's hair. "What? Oh! Of course!" Her capable fingers, strengthened by years of kneading dough and peeling potatoes, immediately took up the task. "Sure, and I can't imagine what I was thinkin', going on while you're trussed like my best Christmas goose."

  Rennie smiled weakly at the comparison. "The knife he left behind would be better suited to the task," she said.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh glanced at the buck knife, then at the series of knots again. Her narrow face was set in disapproval. "I've got a meat cleaver that would do the job with more finesse."

  Rennie was helpless to do anything but wait. She was uncomfortably aware of certain body functions that required attending. The thought that she might have to relieve herself right where she lay was another reason to contemplate Jarret Sullivan's slow, tortured death.

  "Here, and I'll have it in a moment," Mrs. Cavanaugh said, picking at the last knot. "The man's a brute."

  Rennie concurred. "A monster."

  "A madman."

  "A cretin."

  Mrs. Cavanaugh nodded. "Handsome, though, wouldn't you say?"

  Rennie's hands were suddenly free. She used the bedpost to pull herself upright and let the cook gingerly massage her wrists. "What have his looks to do with anything?" she demanded. "His behavior's been reprehensible."

  "Oh, yes," the cook said quickly. "There's no excuse, of course. I was just saying, though, that he's rather a fine figure of a man. It's neither here nor there, just an observation." Ignoring Rennie's sour look, Mrs. Cavanaugh helped her to her feet. "I'll see about the police now. Your mother told me the man was sworn to protect you. I'm thinkin' she'd want him out now."

  "She certainly would," Rennie said feelingly. "She'd want him in jail."

  Mrs. Cavanaugh escorted Rennie to her own room, helped her draw a bath, and then went downstairs to search for her husband. It occurred to her that in twenty-four years of knowing Mary Renee no situation was ever as straightforward as it seemed. Making a sudden decision, she left Mr. Cavanaugh to his pruning in the side yard and sought out Mr. Sullivan instead.

  * * *

  The lure of bread baking and bacon frying drew Rennie to the kitchen. Mrs. Cavanaugh stood in front of the large iron stove, scrambling eggs and eyeing the perfe
ctly round pancakes bubbling and browning on the grill.

  "It all smells wonderful," Rennie said. She crossed the kitchen to stand at the cook's side and put one arm around Mrs. Cavanaugh's slender shoulders. "Can I help you with something?"

  "There's coffee brewing. You might see if it's ready."

  Rennie smiled, not at all surprised that she was given such a simple task. Mrs. Cavanaugh was invariably suspicious of Rennie's help in the kitchen. "You know, Mrs. Cavanaugh, I've really got to learn to cook someday."

  "Not in my kitchen."

  Looking down at the cook's pristine apron, Rennie sighed. In spite of Mrs. Cavanaugh's activity of the last hour, her apron was spotless, the table was clear, the sink was empty, and the floor was clean. Rennie, on the other hand, made a mess filling saltshakers.

  "In fact," the cook was saying, "you'd better step away from the stove before you get burned." She'd no sooner spoke than a bubble of grease exploded on the skillet and splashed the back of Rennie's hand. "There! See that! Go on with you. Put it under cold water, then have a seat at the table. I can't cook and be watchin' for what mischief happens here when you're around."

  Laughing, Rennie did as she was told. "Has Mr. Cavanaugh gone for the police?"

  "Everything's been taken care of."

  That surprised Rennie. She hadn't heard any sort of commotion upstairs. It seemed unlikely that Jarret would vacate the house without some manner of protest. "He didn't draw his gun, did he?"

  Mrs. Cavanaugh shook her head. She flipped a pancake with a flick of her wrist and then went back to stirring the eggs.

  "I half expected that he might."

  "Well, he didn't."

  Rennie became aware of an edge of impatience in the cook's voice. She saw now that Mrs. Cavanaugh's movements were rather stiff and tightly controlled. She seemed to be attacking the food, spearing the bacon and catapulting the pancakes. She set out a tray, added two plates, and stacked pancakes on one and arranged the bacon and eggs on the other. The cook placed a mug on the tray, filled it with hot, black coffee, surveyed her handiwork, and hefted it off the counter.