The Northern Devil Page 9

  Her eyes met his openly, clearly startled by the intimacy of a first name. He desperately needed to capture her, the brilliant mind mated to the fiery core that had fought to keep Elias alive for so very long.

  “I swear I’ll do my utmost to keep you and our children safe and happy. And to protect your mother and sister, wherever they are, as well.” God help him, he meant it, too.

  She reached across the small table and took his hand, a single tear trembling on her eyelash. Her fingernails briefly cut into his palm and the slight pain brought him back to life. “Thank you—Lucas. I’d be honored to marry you and I pray this marriage will work.”

  Her voice was very husky.

  He lifted her left hand and kissed her finger where his ring would rest, shoving his terrors back into the darkness.

  Collins leaped up the steps into the vestibule and stormed into the private Pullman, Holloway following close behind. The once elegant dining salon was now a disgrace with flowers and coffee ground into the carpet, cups and plates tumbled against the teapot on the sideboard, and a superb crystal decanter’s broken base peeking out from under a chair. He ignored all of that, as well as the hired servants rushing frantically back and forth with hot water and clean cloths under his sailors’ distrustful glares.

  “Where is he? Where’s my boy?” he demanded in a voice he hardly recognized.

  His men fell back, leaving a path to the settee.

  Maitland lay stretched across it, a bloody towel wrapped around his head. Nothing could be seen of his face and he was utterly unmoving. He was covered in blood as far as his shoulders and it still stained his hands as if he’d fought until the last against his attacker. He reeked of rum, as though someone had poured it over him.

  Collins groaned, an animalistic sound. Great God, if Maitland died, his own world would end. Maitland was everything, had been everything since the day he was born and his mother had died. Every hope for the future, every plan, was wrapped up in his son.

  Holloway flinched but remained silent.

  Steeling himself for the worst, Collins reached for the improvised bandage and peeled it back. He swallowed hard and did not flinch from his son’s time of need. He’d taken ships through pirate-infested South Seas waters and brawled along more than one foreign dock. He was more than familiar with facial wounds. But this one?

  Maitland had been jabbed, almost sliced, beside his left eye, tearing his skin until even a bit of bone was visible. Blood smeared his skin and clung to his lashes. The blow had been long and jagged, and the resulting scar would be a fearful one.

  Rachel Davis must have plotted long and hard how to trick Maitland, in order to cause such a wound.

  It would be a miracle if Maitland kept his eye or his sight. His face’s left side might permanently drift toward the floor, the skin sagging without any muscles to support it. He might have difficulties eating or talking or…

  He might take an infection and die…

  And, dammit, Rachel Davis deserved to be destroyed for having caused even the least of these ills!

  Collins gently smoothed the towel back into position, cursing under his breath when Maitland twitched—but didn’t have the strength to wake up.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “A military surgeon was staying at the Cozzens Hotel. Fetch him here; I’ll only have the best for Maitland.”

  “Yes, sir.” Holloway glanced at one of his men, who promptly turned to leave.

  “Give him an ice bath before he enters. I want him sober as a judge before he touches my son. Scrub him from the waist up in carbolic soap, like a supercilious French surgeon. I’ll not have him anything less than shipshape.”

  The man’s mouth opened and closed, but he was wise enough not to voice his questions. One quick glance at Holloway, who nodded curtly, and the fellow disappeared.

  As if he, Albert Collins of Boston, gave a damn about the Army’s opinions when Maitland’s life was at stake!

  “Holloway.”

  “Sir?”

  “Where is Mrs. Davis now?”

  The other men froze. Holloway, to give his best man full credit, barely hesitated. “Mrs. Davis, sir, is presently with Mr. Lucas Grainger at the Grainger family’s private Pullman.”

  Collins jerked erect, yanking his hand away from Maitland. “What the devil? With a Grainger?”

  Maitland moaned.

  Collins promptly gentled his voice, cursing himself privately. “Hush, son, hush. All will be well.”

  Especially after I lay my hands on that hell-born slut!

  “I have two men watching Grainger’s railroad car. They won’t go anywhere without our knowledge,” Holloway assured him.

  Collins shot him a glance, careful to keep his hands steady and gentle on his son. “Excellent.”

  He was going to take the greatest pleasure in watching Rachel Davis’s slow, painful death—after she’d been bred like the vicious bitch she was.

  Chapter Five

  “Are you certain you wish to marry Mr. Grainger?” Reverend Anderson asked quietly. “If not, you are welcome to remain here with my wife and me until we can arrange your reunion with your family.”

  He and his wife, both sweet-faced and all too observant, had been conducting evening services at their small church when Rachel and Grainger had arrived in search of a minister. The small congregation of hard-working people had wholeheartedly welcomed a wedding celebration. Her grandfather would have felt at home with this church and its members, so totally unlike the enormous edifice with its supercilious congregants where she’d married Elias.

  Mrs. Anderson had quickly taken Rachel into the parsonage for some final, feminine touches to Rachel’s outfit. Thankfully, Braden, Lucas’s steward, had already worked miracles by sponging out the last dirt and bloodstains. Lucas was waiting for her just outside the door, clearly ready to make his vows.

  She was about to marry into a family of notorious adulterers. She also knew from Elias that Lucas had usually kept a mistress close at hand to satisfy his lusts, even on military posts where such arrangements were difficult to manage.

  While Lucas was her friend, he was also her last choice as a husband—because how could she be sure that he wouldn’t behave like the rest of his family?

  Yet what choice did she truly have? Collins could appear any minute with a court order to drag her back. She had to marry now, if she was to protect Mr. Donovan. Lucas was the only man who stood ready and wouldn’t be crushed by Collins.

  She’d feel so much more certain if she could talk this over with her mother. But that wasn’t possible—and logic told her that this was the only road to take.

  Still, she simply couldn’t believe that he’d told her everything. And yet, did she have the leisure to explore his motives in detail? No.

  Given that, Rachel knew what her answer to Reverend Anderson was, no matter how much her overstretched nerves vibrated.

  She quelled a half-hysterical chuckle. How could she explain to them that she feared a reunion with her legal guardian more than anything else on this earth? “Thank you, Reverend, but I truly want to marry Mr. Grainger.”

  Mrs. Anderson glanced over at her husband. “Are you finished with the formalities yet, dear? Can’t you tell from the way he watches her that he’s not just marrying her for a woman to do the cooking and cleaning?”

  Lucas need a wife for housekeeping? A chirp of laughter escaped Rachel before she could control herself.

  Reverend Anderson studied her expression for a moment and nodded approvingly. “Yes, you two should do very well together. I’d never marry a woman who was being forced into it, of course. But I’ve always hesitated to give the church’s blessing to a union of pure convenience, either. But you’re not that, not if you’re smiling at the thought.”

  Rachel’s eyebrows flew up, but she didn’t explain the true joke.

  “I’ll go to the piano now, dear,” Mrs. Anderson said briskly. “When you hear me play ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,’ come in.�
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  “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson.” His reasons might be unknown, she might dread the future—but marriage to him would keep her out of Collins’s hands and help save Mr. Donovan’s life. That had to be enough—even if her heart did skip a surprising beat whenever he touched her.

  The small woman with the twinkling eyes amid the wrinkled face leaned up to kiss her on the cheek. “You’ll do very well together, child,” she said softly. “He’ll always protect you and you’ll teach him to laugh.”

  Rachel blinked but, before she could say anything, Mrs. Anderson was gone, the door whispering shut behind her. The reverend looked over at Rachel, his brown eyes warm. “If you change your mind—”

  She shook her head.

  He closed his sentence with a flick of his fingers and went on, “Then I’d best make sure your impatient groom hasn’t torn down my church to see what’s standing between him and your marriage.”

  Rachel nodded, her throat a little tight. Their concern for a stranger made this feel far more like a true wedding than she’d expected.

  After what seemed like only a minute later, the piano glided into Bach’s graceful phrases and Rachel stepped into the church, shaking a little.

  Lucas immediately spun to face her, his eyes searching her face.

  She hesitated for an instant, assessing him for the last time as a free woman. As the one who’d share his bed that night and for the rest of her days.

  His raven black hair gleamed under the gaslights, rippling as if it invited her to run her fingers through it. Unlike more fashionable men, his jaw was clean shaven, blatantly taunting the world with its strength and contempt for conventional mores. And his mouth, that had been so harshly controlled earlier, was softer now, more openly sensual—and incredibly more tempting.

  “Rachel?” he asked, his deep, beautiful voice as alluring as any caress.

  She lifted her hand to trace his lips, possibly even explore those high cheekbones…

  Someone shifted in the pew, making the wood creak.

  Rachel promptly adapted her gesture and firmly slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, using a possessiveness meant to reassure him—or herself.

  Surely she couldn’t have been about to fondle her fiancé in public. No fiancé could be so attractive, so virile as to inspire such wanton behavior. Possessiveness was acceptable in public, but not desire.

  A very masculine smile of anticipation curved his mouth, but he said nothing.

  She’d seen its like before on Elias’s face, when he’d had one of his good days and was eagerly anticipating the coming night. She flushed at the memories and glanced away from Lucas.

  He patted her hand. Mrs. Anderson, who’d been playing the same few bars over and over again, emphatically began the melody from the beginning. Lucas took a step forward and Rachel moved with him, walking toward the altar and her wedding night.

  Their walk down the aisle seemed all too brief, given how her pulse thrummed at his touch.

  The church was almost full and everyone looked quite pleased, in complete contrast to her first wedding when the attendees had watched her for the slightest signs of fumbling or other ill-bred behavior. All the original congregants had stayed and been supplemented by the Donovan & Sons’ men who’d come with Lucas and her from his private railroad car. Only her mother’s and sister’s dear faces beaming approval of her choice would have made it better.

  She tried not to think about the sentries standing guard outside, lest Collins’s men return in force.

  This marriage had to succeed, even after she was rid of Collins, no matter what Lucas’s true motives were.

  “Dearly beloved,” Reverend Anderson began, when they’d come to a stop in front of him.

  Rachel forced herself to pay attention to every one of his words, to every detail of Lucas’s expression. This was her husband, the man she was binding herself to for the rest of her life. The man she hoped to make a child with tonight.

  Oh dear God in heaven, have mercy on us…

  She gave her vows firmly and clearly. “I, Rachel, take thee, Lucas, to be my husband…”

  His voice, on the other hand, was a little rough, but still understandable. His eyes were focused on her and quite determined.

  She had no idea how he’d contrived to find it—but he slid a gold ring on her finger, which fit perfectly. She blinked back a very sentimental tear and vowed to be the best possible helpmeet to him, especially when she saw his matching gold band. It was so very, very rare for a man to wear a wedding ring.

  “You may now kiss the bride, Mr. Grainger,” announced Reverend Anderson.

  Lucas promptly leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, one hand resting lightly on her elbow. It was a decorous salute at first and she responded chastely. But that didn’t seem enough, not for the man who’d rescued her. She slid her free hand up his arm and opened her mouth slightly to him, indicating her willingness to be a true wife. His tongue promptly brushed her lips lightly, sensually, teasingly.

  She sighed, quickly remembering the pleasures of simply enjoying a man’s touch. Her head fell back, easing the angle for him, and her fingers stroked his forearm. A slow surge of heat bloomed within her, pulsing softly every time she touched him.

  He rumbled approval deep in his throat and opened his mouth further, his tongue coming forward for even more play.

  Somewhere someone cheered.

  Lucas’s head snapped up. Rachel blushed but managed to hold her head high, startled by their audience’s reaction—and her own need to ignore it, so she could return to kissing her husband.

  She hoped his reasons for marrying her were solid and worth fighting for, so their union would have a hope of surviving.

  William Donovan automatically braced himself against the Astoria’s heavy roll and enjoyed Carter’s praise of his ten-year-old son. Somehow the next generation of Carters promised to be taller, stronger, and cleverer than any other young gentlemen currently causing trouble for their teachers in San Francisco.

  Even standing here in the lee of the Astoria’s superstructure, the bitter north wind threatened to snatch his bowler away and hurl it into the ocean. It was undoubtedly foolish—but he couldn’t stop trying to listen for any other passengers coming up on deck.

  It was after dinner, the sun had set, and no one onboard could see just how close they were to the mouth of the Columbia River with its notoriously rough water. “That seven-shouldered horror,” Lewis and Clark had called it, referring to dangers like the twenty-foot high waves all too common in a winter storm like this one.

  William simply prayed that the storm didn’t worsen with Alaska’s savage fury to give it strength—or that his beloved, all-too-independent wife didn’t take it into her head to leave their cabin to help someone else. Viola, descended from generations of seafarers, was happily sure-footed, no matter what the weather. But every time William glimpsed her moonbeambright hair or delicate frame coming down a passageway or crossing the deck—and never once grasping a safety line!—his heart would stop beating and he’d pray to the Virgin Mary that his darling would be spared for him just a little while longer.

  On this rough afternoon, a handful of other passengers were also standing in this little niche, some trying to gauge the storm’s strength by the frothy, white spray blowing off the wave tops. Others were trying to smoke pipes or cigars, an arduous task in this gale.

  The Astoria pitched, slamming one of the other passengers across the niche.

  William lunged for him, grabbing the fellow’s arm before he could lose his footing.

  The Astoria righted herself with a lurch. The man found his feet, one hand clutching the safety line, his eyes wild and staring, even in the dim light. He muttered something and yanked away from William, then dived for the door that led back inside.

  William silently watched him go, doubting he’d see him outside again unless there was a flat calm. An unlikely occurrence on this route, at this time of year. After returning to his prev
ious location and grasping the safety line again, William gave Carter a quick apology and resumed their previous conversation—and his private worries about his wife.

  Keeping guard over Viola would be easier if Jenkins, his new telegrapher, had been able to spell him rather than keeping to his cabin, supposedly because of seasickness not whisky.

  Ah, well, he was fussing like a hen with one chick. Viola had assured him that she’d remain with the other women—probably so she could play with the children.

  The Astoria labored to the top of yet another wave, hung there for a moment as if allowing every soul onboard to fully understand just how fragile the craft was in comparison to the ocean’s power, then careened down its backside like a sinner rushing toward hell. Water tumbled over the deck in a fury of spray and howling wind, but withdrew sullenly.

  In the distance, wood slammed against wood, echoing through the ship to William. His skin chilled, even where no ocean spray had touched it.

  His head snapped around and he stepped forward quickly. Someone was coming out of the private cabins, from where the women and children were.

  William swung around and looked out of the niche onto the main deck, shielding his eyes against the pounding spray blowing back from the ship’s bow. Safety lines crisscrossed the open expanse. But the mountainous seas could easily toss someone above the ropes or knock them flat, and sweep them overboard—especially if a section of railing was destroyed.

  Who’d come on deck?

  A sturdy ten-year-old boy was running toward the bow, dodging under the ropes and chased by a slight woman wearing a cape. The boy was unfamiliar but the lady…

  Every cell in William’s body screamed the alarm. Carter threw away his cigar.

  “Father!” shouted the lad and waved at them.

  “Good Lord, that’s my boy!” exclaimed Carter and bolted out of the niche toward his motherless child.

  The woman’s hood blew back, exposing a lock of pale hair, which was quickly soaked. Viola, William’s wife and undoubtedly the only one onboard who’d been fast enough to follow Carter’s imp when he’d run off to find his father.