His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) (19 page)

"Do you not have some place you would rather be?" she asked, tossing her coat on the back of a chair. "Some place where you are wanted?"

"I like it here," he said. "And I've paid for it."

"I'll have your money tomorrow."

"Oh? Did they pay you your back salary or did you pick Victor Donovan's pockets?"

Katy ignored him. She went into her bedroom and immediately became incensed when she saw his belongings on her dresser, in her wardrobe, and on her nightstand. "You are not staying here!" she called to him. She gathered up some of the clothes that he had not put away. When she turned, Logan was standing in the doorway.

She pitched the pile of clothes at him. "I mean it, Logan! I want you out of here! You have no rights where I am concerned."

Amused rather than riled, Logan hunkered down and picked up his clothing. He folded each item neatly before he placed it on the seat of the rocker. "You will have to clear some space for me in the chiffonier. I could not decide what items you would want to take out so I left everything as it was."

"You want space?" asked Katy, her voice dangerously soft. She went to the dresser, pulled out the top drawer and upended it. Soft cotton handkerchiefs drifted to the floor. Lacy camisoles and lilac sachets scattered. The second drawer met with the same end as did the third and fourth. "Take all the space you need, Mr. Marshall."

"Thank you," he said pleasantly.

Katy stormed past him on her way to the bathing room. She slammed the door, locked it, and let the water run to drown out the sound of Logan's off-tune whistling. Staying in the tub until the water turned cold gave Katy time to map her strategy. When she emerged, dressed in a cream satin robe and plain cotton nightshift, she went directly to the spare bedroom on the opposite side of the suite. Passing him, Katy pretended not to see that Logan had made himself comfortable in her bed. She did notice, however, that he had made no attempt to clean up her mess.

Katy turned back the bed covers and plumped the pillow. She crawled into bed and waited to see what Logan would do. She fell asleep waiting.

Early morning sunshine filtered through the sheer window curtains and made a lacy pattern of light and heat on Katy's face. She smiled faintly, stretching with the abandon and trust of a child, and turned on her side. That was when she came up short, staring into the dark, impenetrable gaze of Logan Marshall. His eyes grazed her face, studying her sleep-washed features. She knew that he had been watching her for some time and that his normally light-colored eyes were dark for one reason: he had decided he wanted her after all.

Katy started to move away and discovered that Logan was holding the end of her braid in a tight fist. Afraid now, she held herself very still. She saw his eyes skim the planes of her cheeks, her nose, and come to rest on her mouth. Breathing was difficult. She fought the urge to wet her lips.

"When you're sleeping I can almost forget what a treacherous bitch you are," he said. He closed his eyes, released her hair, and rolled away. "God, but you make me want to hurt you... really hurt you." Sitting up, Logan threw his legs over the side of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He raked his hair in an absent gesture.

Katy stared at his naked back. Her eyes drifted across his taut shoulders and down the ridged length of his spine. His skin was smooth, shades lighter than bronze but darker than most men who spent their days indoors. Just above the line of his drawstring drawers, near the base of his spine, there were two dimples. Angel thumbprints. She wished she had not noticed them. For some odd reason they made her want to cry.

Logan got up. He took some clothes from the chiffonier. "I'm going to work," he said. "It's early yet. Go back to sleep." He disappeared into the dressing room and then into the bathroom. When he returned, Katy was sitting up in bed. On the table at the foot of the bed was a pot of coffee and two covered dishes. From the aroma, Logan suspected bacon and biscuits. "Did you order this for me?" he asked. His voice was soft and gritty at the same time, like the tide over sand.

Nodding, Katy put aside the script she was reading. "I've never walked in my sleep," she said, pointing to her surroundings. "I suspect I did not last night either."

Logan sat at the table and poured himself some coffee. It was hot and strong, just the way he liked it. "You didn't. I brought you in here after you fell asleep."

"Why?"

"In the event that one of the Donovans should come visiting, I did not want to be caught with my pants up—so to speak. It would be rather difficult to prove you are my mistress with you there and me here."

"If you had asked me, I would have told you I was not expecting anyone."

"That did not stop me from coming here."

"No," she said quietly. "No, it did not."

Logan uncovered both dishes. Steam rose from the biscuits. He cut one in half and buttered it.

"What do I have to do to get rid of you?" she asked.

Logan concentrated on his bacon. "Did you have anything particular in mind?" he asked with mild interest. "Other than killing me, that is."

That he should hit on the first solution Victor presented her caused Katy to gasp softly.

Enjoying her discomfort, Logan finished his bacon and licked his fingers slowly, giving the activity a certain erotic nuance that Katy could not fail to grasp. "So you
had
thought of it," he said, turning in his chair to fully face her. "Too bad. You had the opportunity to make that happen once before. Instead, you sent me to hell."

Katy felt pinned to the headboard by Logan's hard, winter-cold stare. Yet she was also relieved that at last he had broached the subject. "I thought you would never speak of it," she said in a rush, imploring him to listen to her. "There is something I've been wanting to tell you about that day... something you should know."

One of Logan's eyebrows kicked up in lazy regard. "Oh? Sorry, but it will have to wait." He examined his pocket watch, holding it up for her to see the time. "I am going to be late for a meeting if I do not leave now. You have a performance this evening?"

Nothing of Katy's urge to scream showed on her face. The only hint of her frustration was in her short, sibilant response. "Yes," she said.

"Then I will see you afterward. Thank you for breakfast."

Katy watched him shrug into his jacket and straighten his waistcoat. He glanced in the mirror just once to brush back the hair at his temples with his fingertips, and then he approached the bed. Katy felt the lift of thumb and forefinger below her chin. She could have resisted the pressure he applied to raise her face toward him, but she didn't. He bent his head.

The kiss was neither gentle nor hard. But it was possessive, undeniably a mark of ownership. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of coffee. His lips were firm, and the edge of his tongue played briefly with the line of her upper lip.

When Logan stepped back, he studied Katy for a moment. Her beautifully expressive eyes were wide and luminous with a faint sheen of tears. Her mouth was damp. Two coins of rosy color appeared on her cheeks. "Now do you wish you had let your friends hang me, Katy?"

She blinked and a single tear fell. "No," she said. "I do not wish it."

"You will," he said. "You will come to wish you had never betrayed me."

By the time Katy found her voice, Logan was long gone from the suite. She said her line aloud anyway. "You are not the only one who was betrayed, Logan Marshall."

* * *

Katy stopped at the theatre to pick up her face paints and one of the gowns she wore in the drama. Outside the theatre she hailed a hansom cab to take her to Marshall House. She arrived just minutes before ten o'clock. The driver helped her down from the carriage and offered to carry her things to the front door, but Katy declined, wanting time alone to compose herself before entering the mansion.

Katy wondered how many times she had passed this brownstone without knowing that Logan Marshall lived in it. Dozens, at least. In the future, she thought, she would go out of her way to avoid it.

There was nothing singular about Marshall House to distinguish it from its neighbors. It bore the mark of old money, the solid, grandiose design that stated wealth but fell short of ostentatious vulgarity. The property's privacy was guarded by a spiked iron fence and an elaborate wrought-iron gate that swung soundlessly on well-oiled hinges.

There was no moat or drawbridge, just a simple stone walk that led to the imposing front entrance. In Katy's mind, a moat and drawbridge would not have been out of place. The double-door entrance was made all the more imposing by the large Corinthian columns and pilasters flanking it. There was no tower room, and probably no dungeon, Katy decided, but the heavy stone ornamentation reminded her of the great gothic gargoyles she had seen in photographs of Parisian cathedrals.

She raised her hand to use the brass knocker, but the doors swung open before she made a sound.

"I was looking for you," Jenny said, ushering Katy inside with a pleasant, welcoming smile. A young boy was clutching her skirts. "This is my son Holland. He is a bit shy with strangers, but it doesn't last long. You will wish it did."

"I doubt that." Katy looked down at the boy. His eyes were light, aquamarine, and the expression in them was one of curiosity and wariness. Katy held out her hand. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Holland."

Holland drew part of his mother's skirt across his face and hid behind it as he slowly extended one chubby hand. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and Katy had the urge to brush it back. It was not the sort of gesture he would thank her for, she realized, so she did nothing.

"This is Miss Ackerman," Jenny said to Holland. She shot Katy a brief look of apology for the subterfuge. "Nothing is secret with a three-year-old."

Katy understood. Holland did not. "Four," he said, focusing on the only part of the conversation that was important to him. "I am four."

"Almost," his mother corrected. "You will be four when we're on the ship."

"Ship! Ship!" He lost interest in both women and went running down the hallway. He disappeared into a room at the end.

Jenny laughed. "He is so excited about our trip. Of course the only thing he really understands is that we are going to be on the water. He's been playing with his boats in the kitchen sink most of the morning. Here, let me take this gown. It's from the play, isn't it? You wore it at the end of the first act to seduce your sister's fiancé."

"Yes, I did not know if I should bring it." She hesitated at the base of the wide staircase as Jenny began to lead the way. "What about Holland?"

"He's with our housekeeper. Mrs. Brandywine will send him to the studio when he wears her down."

Jenny continued up the stairs, chattering gaily about the gown, the play, and making every effort to put her guest at ease. From the moment Jenny had seen Katy alight from the carriage, she had been aware of the actress's hesitation and uncertainty. Katy's guardedness confounded Jenny. She could not help but wonder what Logan's relationship to Katy Dakota could be.

The inside of Marshall House was no less impressive than the outside. Katy's footsteps were almost soundless on the carpet, and her hand slid easily along the polished banister. She tried not to stare at her surroundings, hoping to give the impression that she was, if not used to such luxury, then certainly not intimidated by it. There was no denying that her suite at the Chesterfield was elegantly appointed. Still, peeking unobtrusively when an open door presented itself, Katy began to understand why Logan likened her rooms to a brothel parlor. At the first landing on the stairs, Jenny had paused long enough to point to the left and mention carelessly that Logan occupied the south wing of the house. The south wing! He had his choice of half a dozen beds to sleep in, she thought, yet he was spending his nights in hers. Logan Marshall was mad. Absolutely mad!

The only artist's studio Katy had even been to was Victor's, and by his own admission, he was a mere dabbler. The truth of that was brought home to her when she saw Christian Marshall's workplace.

Jenny, seeing how the room must look through Katy's eyes, was immediately apologetic. "It's awful, isn't it? When Christian works he is rather like a man possessed. Order is not in his vocabulary." Canvases filled every conceivable space. A scarred table was littered with brushes and paints and pallets. Several easels were stacked against one wall and another, this one covered by a sheet to protect a work in progress, stood in the middle of the room. There was a sitting area and two roomy alcoves with windows large enough to catch the morning or evening light.

"Over here," said Jenny, pointing to the alcove with the eastern exposure. "I have arranged this area to be similar to your dressing room at the theatre. Pretend that old brass bed is not there. It won't show up in the photographs."

Katy felt immediately at home in the place Jenny had made for her. The mirrored vanity was very much like the one at Wallack's. The padding on the stool was even a similar shade of green. There was a dressing screen and a chaise, and Jenny had gone to the trouble of adding a few baskets of flowers. None of them were daisies.

Katy put her case on the vanity and began setting out her jars and vials and powders. "If Mr. Marshall sees this room he will know that I've been here," she said. Her voice betrayed little of the anxiousness she felt.