Bride of the High Country Page 6

  Fearing to be seen, Margaret ducked against the wall by the arched opening.

  “I doubt it,” said another man, whose voice Margaret didn’t recognize. “No decent Irish woman would marry him.”

  Horne snickered, and the sound of it made Margaret clap a gloved hand over her mouth to keep from retching. She remembered that laugh. Those black eyes. The fat, white fingers reaching out—

  His voice cut through her terror. “She may not be as decent as we think. There’s something about her . . .”

  “She can’t be Irish,” the other man insisted. “The Irish hate him because he was a runner. One of McGinty’s best. Helped him make a fortune fleecing the dumb bastards before they even cleared the gangplanks.”

  A runner? Margaret sagged against the wall, one hand still pressed over her mouth, the other clutching her churning stomach. Doyle was a runner?

  Horne snickered again. “I didn’t know that. Useful information to have.”

  Lights danced behind her eyes, and something cold spread through her chest. Da . . . oh, Da . . .

  “McGinty?” Horne went on. “Wasn’t he killed by an Irish mob?”

  Run! Her father’s voice echoed through her memory. Run, Cathleen!

  The stranger’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “There’s some say Kerrigan was part of it and joined up with the Irish Brigade when the war broke out just to escape the law. But don’t spread that about. The man’s got a long reach.”

  “I’m not afraid of that Irish bastard.”

  “Maybe you should be,” the other man warned. “If not him, then Rylander. Some say he’s the real power. He’s certainly the brains. Quiet, here he comes.”

  Footfalls approached. Margaret looked frantically for escape when Rylander suddenly appeared in the archway, Mrs. Bradshaw at his side with a frosty glass of water in her hand.

  “Miss Hamilton,” he said gravely. “They’re ready for you.”

  Margaret struggled to catch her breath. “I . . . ah . . .”

  Frowning, he stepped closer, causing her to shrink back. “Are you all right?”

  “Here, ma’am. Drink this.” Mrs. Bradshaw put the glass in her hands.

  Margaret tried to drink but was shaking so hard water spilled down her skirt. “I can’t—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bradshaw,” Rylander cut in, taking the glass from Margaret’s grip. “Tell the orchestra to wait until we’re at the door. We’ll be there momentarily.”

  Bracing one hand against the wall, Margaret closed her eyes and tried to slow the spinning. She heard the housekeeper leave but knew Rylander was still there. She could feel him, hear him breathing. She wanted to scream at him to go away.

  A runner. Dear God . . . I’m marrying a runner. Acid burned in her throat and she almost gagged as she swallowed it back. Her knees started to wobble. Da . . . help me.

  “Margaret, what’s wrong?” A hand touched her shoulder.

  She flinched. “Go away.”

  “Are you ill?”

  She willed her legs to carry her weight. To carry her from this place.

  “Take a breath. Slow and easy. Now another.”

  She did and gradually the dizziness faded. Slowly, her head cleared. When the shaking eased, she pushed away from the wall and looked up into worried gray eyes. Rage shot through her. “Did you know Doyle was a runner?”

  The dark brows rose. “A what?”

  “A runner. How could you not know?”

  “What are you talking about? What’s a runner?”

  Oh, God. How could this be?

  “Miss Hamilton—Margaret—what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

  A figure moved into the opening. “The orchestra is waiting,” Mrs. Bradshaw said in a worried voice. “Mr. Kerrigan is getting impatient.”

  “We’re coming,” Rylander said curtly. “Tell them we’re on our way.” After the housekeeper left, he turned back to Margaret. “Are you ready?”

  “No.”

  “Of course you are.” Ignoring her weak protests, Rylander pulled the veil over her face and, with awkward clumsiness, tried to smooth the draped folds. “There.” Stepping back, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  She didn’t move.

  “Margaret. It’s time. Take my arm.”

  She blinked up at him through the lacy design. “I—I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can. Just take my arm. I’ll get you through it.”

  When she still didn’t move, he lifted her hand and tucked it under his arm, pinning it hard against his side.

  He felt solid and real and warm against her chilled arm. “I can’t do this,” she said again as he forced her to step forward.

  “Yes, you can. This is what you want, remember? Safety and security. Doyle can give you all of that and more. He’ll protect you.”

  His soft, hoarse voice went on and on, crooning, cajoling, forcing her to take just one more step. Then another.

  Perhaps the man with Horne was wrong. Perhaps it was just evil gossip. Doyle was an easy target and no doubt had made enemies along the way. Perhaps this was just a base rumor started by some small-minded person who was envious of his success. She looked up into Rylander’s worried gaze. “You didn’t know?”

  He smiled. Or tried to. But it didn’t reach his eyes, and she knew he was still confused. “I don’t even know what a runner is, Margaret. But if he had been one, surely I would have known, don’t you think?”

  Yes. That made sense. Of course, Rylander would have known. Those watchful eyes saw everything. Unless Doyle was too ashamed to admit it, even to his friend. Certainly he wouldn’t want his employees to know. No true Irishman would ever willingly work for a runner.

  “This is just nerves, Margaret. Come along. Doyle is waiting. Just lean into my shoulder and step with me.”

  As they neared the ballroom, music started. The wedding march. Beyond the white screen of her veil, Margaret saw dark figures rising. She felt them watching her, heard them murmur. Digging her gloved fingers into Rylander’s hard forearm, she moved numbly forward, one foot in front of the other.

  Toward Doyle. Toward a future she wanted. Needed.

  The music swelled. Doyle came forward to take her hand. Rylander passed her off, then stepped to the side as Father O’Rourke began to speak.

  But what if it’s true?

  * * *

  “Now you.” Grinning, Doyle set the pen down on the table and motioned her forward. “Mrs. Kerrigan.”

  Margaret looked bleakly down at the document in front of her.

  After the ceremony, the wedding party had come directly to this small office down the hall from the ballroom. The wedding guests had been herded in the opposite direction into a large meeting room where they would be served wine and punch and appetizers while the bride and groom attended to their first task as man and wife.

  The signing of the marriage certificate.

  Father O’Rourke picked up the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it out. “Go ahead, lass. They’re waiting.”

  Margaret took the pen in nerveless fingers. As she did, her gaze fell on the gold wedding band Doyle had slipped over her gloved finger. A manacle. Another brand that marked her as belonging to Doyle Kerrigan. A runner.

  She started to shake. Letters swam before her eyes. She should talk to Doyle. She should ask him if what Horne said was true. She should find out the truth before she penned her name on this document.

  And if it was true, then what? An annulment?

  He would never stand for that.

  She was vaguely aware of people milling around her—Rylander and Mrs. Throckmorton waiting to sign as witnesses, Doyle lifting a goblet from a footman’s silver tray, Mrs. Bradshaw hovering in the doorway with several photographers, while behind them, other
people she didn’t know scribbled on small note tablets.

  How was she to sign? Margaret Hamilton? Cathleen Donovan? Margaret Kerrigan? She didn’t know who she was anymore. Tears stinging her eyes, she looked up at the priest who knew her as all three. “What do I write?”

  “Your full name, lass. Margaret Hamilton Kerrigan.” His kindly eyes held pity, and perhaps a hint of sadness. The rope of lies that bound them together felt like a noose tightening around her neck. But if she broke her silence now, might she bring harm to both him and Mrs. Throckmorton? Doyle was a vengeful man.

  Do it. You’ll be safe. They’ll be safe. No one will ever be able to touch you.

  She signed.

  As soon as she slipped the pen back into the holder, Doyle thrust a goblet into her hand. Grinning, he raised his high, offering Gaelic and English toasts to wealth and health and happiness.

  Margaret forced herself to drink. Over the rim of the glass she saw Rylander studying her with those unreadable, slate-colored eyes, and felt a renewed surge of fear. Had she betrayed herself by asking him about Doyle? Would Rylander realize she knew more about the Irish than she should, and tell her husband? Seeing the goblet wobble in her hand, she carefully set it back on the tray.

  “I have a gift for you, leannan.” Doyle dropped a thick folder onto the table beside their marriage certificate and kissed her cheek. “A token of my love, a ghra, and to mark our wedding day. Open it.”

  With shaky fingers, Margaret lifted the cover. Inside were stock certificates issued by the Hudson and Erie Railroad to Margaret Hamilton Kerrigan. Each certificate was worth twenty shares, and there must have been two dozen certificates. “I don’t understand. What does this mean?”

  Doyle laughed. “It means you’re part owner of a railroad. I know security is important to you. I wanted you to have something of your own.”

  Looking past Doyle’s shoulder at Rylander, she wondered if he had shared with her husband their conversation of two days ago after the engagement ball.

  But he was staring hard at Doyle’s back, speculation in his gaze.

  “Th-thank you.” She looked back at her husband. “What am I to do with them?”

  “Hold on to them for now, lass. We’ll go to Tait’s office tomorrow to sign the proxy papers, then to the bank to put them directly into the vault so they’ll be safe.”

  “Proxy for what?”

  “So I can cast your vote for you.” Leaning down, he gave her a quick kiss to distract her. “It’s just business, a ghra. Don’t worry your pretty head about it. Mrs. Bradshaw,” he called, swinging toward the doorway. “As soon as Tait and Mrs. Throckmorton sign, you can let in the reporters and photographers.”

  “I don’t . . . feel . . . well,” a halting voice said.

  Margaret turned to see Mrs. Throckmorton slumped in the chair, one hand clasped to her chest. Her face was flushed and wispy curls stuck to her damp forehead. She was breathing heavily. “Ma’am? Are you ill?”

  Everyone turned to stare. The old lady groaned.

  Heart thudding, Margaret looked around in panic, saw the papers and folder on the table, and snatched them up. Rushing to her guardian’s side, she began fanning her flushed face. “Ma’am, what’s wrong? Are you overheated?”

  “Can’t . . . breathe . . .”

  Margaret fanned harder.

  Rylander loomed at her shoulder. Mrs. Bradshaw stooped beside him to loosen Mrs. Throckmorton’s collar while Doyle herded the photographers and reporters away from the doorway.

  Rylander told Mrs. Bradshaw to get water and a doctor. “Now.”

  Margaret stared up at him in terror.

  “It’s probably nothing,” he said in his calm way. “Too much excitement.”

  As Mrs. Bradshaw rushed away, Father O’Rourke took her place at Mrs. Throckmorton’s side, his rosary in his hand. His lips moved in a silent prayer.

  “She’s Lutheran,” Margaret said stupidly, grasping at anything to block the fear churning inside.

  “The Lord will forgive her.”

  “Take . . . me . . . to my . . . room,” Mrs. Throckmorton said weakly.

  “Let’s wait for the doctor, dearest.” Still fanning, Margaret smoothed her free hand over her guardian’s brow. It felt cold even through her thin glove. “He’ll be here soon. Then we’ll get you up to your bed. You’ve overdone, I’m afraid. I shouldn’t have forced you to come.”

  “Didn’t . . . force . . .” The words trailed off. Her eyes closed.

  “Ma’am?” When there was no answer, Margaret looked up at Rylander. “Do something,” she cried, her nerves starting to unravel. Mrs. Throckmorton was all she had. The thought of losing her was too unbearable to contemplate.

  Rylander’s big hand patted her shoulder. “Keep fanning. She’ll be fine.”

  A middle-aged man with a black satchel shoved through the crowded doorway. “I’m the hotel doctor. Where’s the patient?”

  “Over here.” Rylander moved to make room for him.

  “She fainted earlier today,” Margaret told him as the doctor bent over the slumped woman. “But she’s been fine since. She’s quite hearty for her age.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Her ward. What’s wrong with her? Will she be all right?”

  Mrs. Throckmorton moaned piteously.

  The doctor listened through his stethoscope, looked into each of the faded blue eyes, poked and prodded until the elderly woman shoved his hands away. Leaning close to her ear, he shouted, “Can you hear me, madam?”

  Mrs. Throckmorton flinched. “I’m faint. Not deaf. Nitwit.”

  He pursed his lips. “She can hear and speak and move,” he told Margaret. “So I doubt she’s suffered an apoplectic seizure. Heartbeat strong. Lungs clear. Dyspepsia, perhaps. Or nervous prostration. A phlebotomy might help.” He reached into his satchel.

  Mrs. Throckmorton’s fingers tightened on Margaret’s.

  “You mean a bloodletting?” Rylander’s expression of disgust made it clear what he thought of the practice.

  The doctor frowned at the interruption. “It’s often quite helpful in draining poisonous humors from the body.”

  “No,” Rylander said.

  Margaret looked at him in surprise. Not because he was averse to a practice that she, too, thought barbaric, but because he seemed genuinely concerned about an old woman he didn’t even know. And where was Doyle through all of this? Seeing the doctor was about to argue, she quickly broke in. “I agree. Don’t open her veins. Not unless she worsens. Can she be moved?”

  With a huff, the doctor closed his satchel. “She’ll have to be carried.”

  “I’ll have one of the bellmen take her to her room,” Doyle said, finally having cleared the doorway.

  Rylander stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

  Clutching the folder to her chest, Margaret stepped aside as he scooped up the frail body as if it weighed no more than a sack of grain.

  “No screw thing,” Mrs. Throckmorton said weakly against his shoulder as he carried her to the door.

  Mrs. Bradshaw and Margaret started to follow when Doyle’s hand on her shoulder brought Margaret to a stop. “Where are you going, lass? Sure, and the photographers and reporters are waiting.”

  She frowned, taken aback by the suggestion that she abandon her guardian to appease a pack of gossip columnists. “She needs me, Doyle.”

  “I need you.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll stay, leannan. We have guests.”

  Anger flashed. She wrenched her shoulder from his grip. “I must make certain she’s all right. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Without giving him a chance to argue, she swept through the door and raced to catch up with Rylander and Mrs. Bradshaw.

  Mr. Rylan
der was huffing by the time they reached the third-floor suite. Mrs. Bradshaw went ahead into the bedroom to pull back the coverlet, and as soon as Rylander gently laid Mrs. Throckmorton down, Mrs. Bradshaw began unbuttoning her sensible high-topped shoes.

  Tossing the folder on top of the bureau, Margaret went to help loosen the elderly woman’s clothing. “We’ll have you tucked in in no time, ma’am.”

  “Not . . . in front . . . of them.” Turning toward Margaret, the stricken woman lifted a trembling hand. “Please . . . Margaret. Make them . . . go.”

  Margaret hesitated, fearing to be all alone if something else happened. Just knowing Rylander was nearby to manage things was a comfort.

  “Please . . . Margaret.”

  Promising she would send word by the floor maid if her guardian worsened, Margaret ushered Rylander and Mrs. Bradshaw out.

  After she closed the door behind them, she turned to see her guardian bolt upright.

  “I thought they would never leave,” the old woman said, swinging her feet to the floor. “Get my valise. There, by the wardrobe.”

  Margaret gaped. “Y-You’re all right?”

  “Of course I am. But it’s apparent you’re not. You’ve been in a state of nerves ever since you came downstairs. Hurry, we haven’t much time.”

  “You big faker!” Caught between hysterical relief and sputtering outrage, Margaret snatched the valise from the floor and almost threw it in the old biddy’s face. “I was sick with worry. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “So you can decamp.” As she spoke, the elderly woman rummaged through the bag. “I could tell you’d finally come to your senses the minute you stumbled into the ballroom on that nice Mr. Rylander’s arm. You moved like you were headed to your own hanging. Put this on.” She held up a wrinkled black dress. “And this.” She tossed out a fur wrap. “I know you dislike wearing dead animals with the heads and tails intact, but it will give you presence. Where’s my hatbox?”

  Margaret stared blankly, her mind in such turmoil she couldn’t think.

  Mrs. Throckmorton stopped rummaging and glared impatiently at her. “You do want to decamp, don’t you?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Good. I’ll tell you what to do while you dress. They’ll be coming soon.”