Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (28 page)

“No, not really. I do have some information that is odd, though, and I thought you should know.” She avoided his gaze. The truth was, it made sense that he had involved himself with someone when his wife left him. He was too passionate and too virile a man to be alone for very long. Still, she wished Hart had not stirred up this particular hornets’ nest for her.

“What information?” he asked, his eyes moving slowly over her face.

Her heart skipped in response. The study was in shadow, except for where they stood, bathed in the fire’s glow and heat. “I had an odd encounter with my client, Lydia Stuart.” Francesca realized her tone was husky. She could not shake off her distress, and perhaps it
was
jealousy. She felt oddly confused. “Bragg, her coach was at Mary O’Shaunessy’s funeral. And perhaps she or her husband was there as well.”

“What?” he exclaimed.

Francesca told him about the woman in navy blue and then told him about Stuart’s gift of poems, watching him closely.

He was very surprised. “Well. This would be a most unusual turn, if your client, or her husband, was somehow involved. Tomorrow I shall pay them both a casual call.”

“I think you should. They moved here from Philadelphia, Bragg. Perhaps they know Lizzie O’Brien?”

“That would be a long shot. And I think the gift of poems is a coincidence,” Bragg added thoughtfully. “But
it is certainly worth checking out. But why did she—or he, or a friend—attend Mary’s funeral? That is the crucial question.”

“I agree.” She grimaced as she studied his face, her heart aching now. “And I am not mistaken, for their driver is a young man that I recognized from the funeral immediately.”

“Well, we finally found Mike O’Donnell and Sam Carter. They are both in the hold. I spent an hour with each of them earlier,” he told her.

“And . . . ?” she asked eagerly, instantly diverted from all that had happened and been said with Hart a few hours ago. This was good news!

“Well, if O’Donnell hated his wife and sister, he is very good at hiding it. Carter is the one filled with anger—and he is open about it. But he did not know Mary, as it turns out, and he does not know Maggie Kennedy. Or so he claims. I believe him.”

“Did you ask Mike about Maggie?” Francesca had to ask.

“He spoke very highly of her. The man is coming across as a God-fearing saint.”

She touched his sleeve. “Perhaps
God-fearing
is the operative word here. But we have both met him—he is no saint.”

“He is definitely no saint. Francesca? You are trying to hide your feelings from me. What has happened?”

She hesitated and looked away. “I am very worried about Maggie. I want this case solved.” And that was the truth, but only a part of it.

“So do I.” He slid his hand over her shoulder. “There is more.” It was not a question.

She glanced up. “It’s just . . .” She was too proud to ask him about his personal life. It was so highly inappropriate. Besides, whatever it was, it was in the past. Of that she had no doubt.

“It’s just what?”

She shook her head, then muttered, “Your blasted brother came calling, and he annoyed me no end.”

He dropped his hand abruptly. “He cannot stay away from you, it seems.”

“I doubt that,” she said.

“What did he want?”

She hesitated. “He wanted to know why we were dining together Saturday night.”

Bragg looked at her and then turned away to face the fire.

She touched his back. It was a rock-hard slab of muscle beneath her fingertips. He, like Peter, was casually dressed. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. Francesca imagined that she could feel his skin through the soft cotton dress shirt.

“And you said . . . ?”

“I told him about our wager,” she murmured, removing her hand. Accidentally, it slid down his back.

Bragg turned and their eyes locked. Neither one of them moved.

Her heart was behaving most erratically now. “Anyway, it is not important,” she whispered.

“Isn’t it? Damn my bothersome brother,” Bragg said harshly. He did not move. “I find myself jealous. I shall beat him soundly if he doesn’t keep his distance from you.”

His response was so passionate that she was briefly stunned. “There is no rivalry here, Bragg,” she said, her pulse pounding. “He is only a friend—as I have pointed out before. I cannot believe you would be jealous of him! God, he is not half the man that you are!” she cried.

“You came here tonight because you were upset, not to share information with me about the Stuarts,” he said flatly. “You came here tonight because he upset you.”

She nodded, feeling oddly tearful. “You are right,” she whispered.

He cupped her face. “Don’t cry.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. But she did know. He was the first man she had ever loved, but he had loved several other women, and somehow it was hard to fathom. And as she spoke she closed her eyes and turned her face, not intending to, but somehow her lips pressed a kiss into the center of his hand.

Stunned by herself, her eyes flew open, and their gazes met, his also wide.

It was a tangible moment of decision and choice. Of desire and need.

Suddenly she stepped forward—into his arms.

They closed about her in a powerful embrace, crushing her entire body against his larger, stronger one. His mouth covered hers.

Her heart seemed to drop to the floor and then shoot into the sky as their lips locked, then opened; Bragg kept her wrapped in his powerful arms and she felt every inch of muscle that he had. His tongue found hers. She cried out, thrilled and frantic, frantic and thrilled.

Her back found a wall. One of his hands braced her head against it, his fingers underneath her chin and jaw, while his body kept her immobilized as well. The kiss deepened.

A long time later, he tore his mouth from hers and their eyes met. Neither one of them could breathe properly, and neither one of them smiled, as the situation was far too urgent. Somehow his eyes had turned black. Desire strained his expression. Suddenly he popped two buttons open at her throat and he bent and kissed the hollow there, touching it with the tip of his tongue.

Francesca felt as if she might die if they did not finish this tonight.

And soon.

Suddenly he wrapped his arms around her again, burying his face against her neck, pressing his loins, which
were clearly aroused, against her. They rocked together for a long, terrible moment.

Francesca did not know what to do; she could not think. Her body was demanding that she consummate with this man, and that was the only fact that she was aware of. She ran her hand over his taut waist and then over his hard buttock again. “Take me upstairs,” she said harshly.

“Christ!” He moved away from her as if he had been shot.

“Bragg!”

He stared at her, breathless, his chest heaving. Somehow, his own shirt had become partially opened, revealing a swath of hard, sculpted chest muscle and dark brown hairs. “Don’t even think it!” he cried.

She did not move from where she leaned against the wall, feeling as if her entire body had been reduced to a mass of quivering jelly. “But I
am
thinking it. And so are you. We are adults. Take me upstairs,” she said again.

He closed his eyes and ran a shaking hand through his hair. “No.” He looked at her.

Behind him, the telephone rang.

Francesca began to cry. She closed her eyes and fought tears of frustrated desire—a feeling she had never before had. Then she wondered if Hart was right. For this might be love, but it was certainly lust.

She hated Hart for appearing in her mind now.

The telephone continued to ring.

“You have to go,” Bragg said harshly.

She opened her eyes in time to see him turning to the phone. She wanted to move, but her body continued to fail her. Instead, she tried to calm her breathing down. This urgency, this frustrated desire, was a terrible thing.

She watched him lift the receiver. He said, “Yes?” and stiffened. A moment later he slammed down the phone, turning to her—and his eyes were wide and clear.

Something had happened.

“What is it?” Francesca cried.

“Maggie has just opened a letter from Mary O’Shaunessy, a letter written on the day of her death.”

M
ONDAY
, F
EBRUARY
10, 1902—11:00
P.M.

When Francesca and Bragg arrived at the house, a servant told them that Mr. Cahill was waiting for them in Mrs. Kennedy’s room. Francesca had already been hoping that her parents had retired to their rooms, as it was late, and as neither Andrew nor Julia was waiting for her—and an explanation—at the door, she assumed her brief prayer had been answered.

Maggie’s door was wide open. She sat on a moss green velvet sofa in front of the hearth, where a fire burned. Evan was seated beside her, but Maggie was hugging herself and sitting very stiffly, staring unseeingly at the flames. Joel was dwarfed by a huge forest green and blue striped wing chair. No other children were in sight, and Francesca assumed they were all asleep in the adjoining bedroom.

As Francesca and Bragg entered, Evan and Joel leaped to their feet. Evan regarded Francesca grimly, and she knew he was very displeased because he had found her at Bragg’s at such a late hour. Francesca ignored him. She went swiftly to Maggie, sitting down beside her and taking her hands. “Are you all right?”

Maggie met her gaze. “It is like hearing from the dead.”

“I know.”

Bragg had approached. “May I see the letter?”

Maggie nodded at the low table in front of the sofa, where the letter lay.

As Bragg read it, Francesca said, “Did she mention that she was afraid for her life?”

Maggie shook her head. “The letter is innocent enough. We hadn’t seen each other in a few months, not since she had begun to work at the Jansons’. She described her job, her mistress, the house. She sounded so happy,” Maggie added huskily.

Evan lifted a glass of scotch from the table by Maggie’s knees. “Do take a sip. It will help. Truly. I promise.”

Maggie bit her lower lip and flushed, not looking at him. “I do not imbibe, Mr. Cahill.”

He sighed. “This is rather a bit of a crisis.”

She stared at her knees.

“Mama?” Joel said, hovering behind the sofa. “Mr. Cahill’z tryin’ to be nice.”

Maggie turned and looked at her earnest son. “I know.” She sighed and glanced at Evan briefly. “Thank you.” She looked away.

“I feel as if I have done something terribly wrong,” Evan said sourly, “when I am only trying to be helpful.”

“You are very kind . . . sir,” Maggie murmured.

“Evan? Why don’t you take Joel down to the kitchen for a cookie?”

Joel brightened. He gave Evan a sideways glance that seemed partly shy and partly admiring.

Evan slapped his shoulder. “Good idea. I could use one myself. We’ll even bring your mother one. How’s that, son?”

Joel grinned. “I didn’t want to hog it all at supper,” he said.

The two walked out, Evan still clasping the boy’s shoulder. Francesca regarded them until they had disappeared, pleased to see them getting along. She realized Maggie had been watching them, too. Suddenly Bragg said, “Well, it looks as if we have found Lizzie O’Brien.”

“We have?” Excitement filled her.

“Mary mentions that she has heard from Lizzie, who is living in Philadelphia. Apparently she received a letter from her. My men have already searched her flat, but they were not looking for that letter.”

Francesca stood. “Most people do not throw their letters out, especially not from close friends who have moved away.”

“I intend to find that letter tonight.” He met Francesca’s gaze. “The sooner as I have an address on Lizzie, the better. Newman can go to Philadelphia to question her, and perhaps bring her up to New York.” He softened, looking at Maggie. “I am so sorry you had to receive this now. How did you receive it, by the way?”

“When Francesca, I mean Miss Cahill, and her brother went to get the children, Joel brought my mail. I don’t receive mail, usually, and a letter is rather an occasion. But in the excitement of moving into the house here, he forgot to give it to me until a half hour ago.” She paled. “I went into shock when I realized who it was from.”

Bragg looked at Francesca. “The letter is innocent enough. Mary was very happy with her new employment—in fact, with her life. Her one concern was for Katie, whom she mentions remained sullen and unforgiving. There is, however, one loose end.”

Francesca raised both brows. “And that is . . . ?”

Maggie said, “I know. I was rather surprised myself.”

Bragg regarded her closely. “She says, and I quote, ‘To make matters even better, I have met a man. Wish me luck.’ And that is how she ends her letter. Do you have any idea of who this man was?”

Maggie shook her head. “I had no idea she had met anyone.”

Francesca said, “We must find this man. What if he is the killer? We must find him, and the place to start might
be the list I had Newman make of everyone in attendance at Mary’s funeral.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he said.

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
11, 1902—10:00
A.M.

Her dreams were so odd. She was in Bragg’s arms, his bed. Their clothes had disappeared and their passion knew no bounds. Francesca could actually feel his skin, his muscles, his manhood. It was so right.

But when she awoke, shocked because the dream was so vivid and real, something inside of her was sick and afraid.

As if it were all wrong.

Which made no sense. Francesca wondered if her conscience was warring with her determination not to let Leigh Anne destroy their happiness. Perhaps her morals were far too ingrained for her to go forward as she wished.

Or was it something else?

Francesca had overslept. She’d been up far too late recently, and as she went downstairs she was thankful she did not have a class until noon. Her resolve to take a leave of absence had lessened. It would be far better to find the Cross Murderer soon and return to her studies and some semblance of normal life.