Only My Love (53 page)

Houston's tone was dry. A faint white line of pain tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Well? Can everyone in New York know but me?"

Dee stood, put aside her reticule, and took off her coat. In the cracked mirror above the washbasin she fingered her hair, securing a few wayward strands behind her ear. She wanted to relish her secret a moment longer, wanted Houston to feel the frustration of waiting, of being dependent upon her. "It seems Michael Dennehy was married last night."

"Married?"

Dee nodded, shooting Houston a sly, sidelong glance. "To Ethan Stone of all people."

Grimacing, Houston pushed himself upright in bed. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. For a moment he didn't say anything, pushing back the pain. "So he's here, then," he said softly.

"Apparently. The announcement will be in the afternoon paper."

"Has he been here all along or—"

"Just arrived," she said. "I had the distinct impression that the people she works with were surprised. Ethan hadn't been courting her."

"Then he's here because of us."

It was the same conclusion Dee had reached. "It seems likely."

"Do you think they're really married this time?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter though, does it? You wanted to draw Ethan out, to have him suffer. He will watch her die."

Houston nodded slowly, his black eyes distant as he stared at the yellowing wall opposite him.

"There's just one other thing, Houston."

He turned.

"It seems the new Mrs. Stone is very pregnant."

* * *

Michael and Ethan sat in the second floor family dining room of the St. Mark. They were seated near one of the large arched windows at the rear of the room. They could look down and see the parade of bonnets and derbies as people crossed Broadway or alighted from carriages. Dusk was shading the thoroughfare; crowds gathered in front of the St. Mark preparing to take a meal in the hotel's renowned restaurant. Gas lamps flickered on, brightening the street with warm yellow light.

No one shared their table. Ethan thought they must have looked as if they wanted to be alone. The waiter set their plates on the white linen table cloth and served them. Ethan had roast beef and potatoes and carrots. Michael had chosen the honeyed chicken and a salad. Ethan drank red wine with his meat. Michael sipped from a glass of white.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked. "You're only fiddling with your food."

Michael pushed her plate away. "I'm really not very hungry." Her fingers curled around the stem of the wine glass but she didn't raise it to her lips.

"Is it the baby?"

"No. Baby's fine." She paused, then plunged in. "Ethan, are you really going to follow me around at the office tomorrow?"

"I don't know about following you around. I certainly hadn't intended to get in your way, but I'll be there. Unless you decide not to go back to the
Chronicle,
there's really no other way."

"I have to go back."

"You don't have to work," he said. "I own a silver mine."

She laughed. "I didn't marry you for your money."

"Well, I didn't marry you for yours."

"What a relief. I only make forty-five dollars a week."

"That's more than I earn as a federal marshal."

"You don't have to work either," she reminded him gently.

But he did. It was no different for Michael, he realized, only more difficult to accept. "I'm trying," he said.

She reached for his hand. "I know. Someday I'm going to take you to hear Susan B. Anthony and Mrs. Stanton speak on women's rights. The world's changing, Mr. Stone."

His grin was lop-sided, his tone dry. "Next you'll be wanting the vote."

Her steady stare and silence was eloquent.

"Oh, God," he sighed.

Pretending sympathy, Michael patted his hand. "Here," she said, pushing her plate toward him. "Eat up. You're going to need your strength."

Chapter 15

Michael scooted off the bed and padded quietly into the bathing room. One hand supported the small of her back as she poured a glass of water. She didn't drink it herself, but carried it back to the bedroom. Skirting the four-poster, Michael stopped beside the rocker where Ethan was sitting. She handed him the water, which he took without a word, and felt his forehead with the back of her hand.

"You're a little warm," she said, lighting one of the lamps. "How long have you been feeling sick?"

"An hour. Perhaps a little longer." He sipped the water. His stomach roiled and he closed his eyes. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You could have. 'In sickness and in health.' I made a vow."

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. "I thought we would be married longer than three days before I challenged the sickness part." He sipped the water again, sloshing it around his mouth before he swallowed. There was a painful contraction as soon as it hit the pit of his stomach.

Michael went to the bathing room and returned with a cool, damp cloth. She wiped his face, then folded it in thirds and placed it across his forehead. "Perhaps I should ask the manager to send for a doctor. I could request Scott Turner. He's already seeing me because of the baby."

He handed her back the glass. "I don't need a doctor. It's nothing more than indigestion. I ate all of my meal and most of yours. And mixing both wines didn't help. I'll be fine in the morn—" His eyes opened wide and his face went from gray to ash. The wet cloth slipped from his forehead as he leaped out of the rocker and ran to the bathing room.

Even through the closed door, Michael could hear the sounds of her husband retching. She patted her belly and spoke to her baby. "And aren't we glad we didn't have the chicken?"

Michael gave Ethan a few more minutes alone before she walked in. He was leaning against the wash-stand. She handed him a clean nightshirt to replace the damp one he was wearing and bathed his neck, face, and shoulders. "It's probably a touch of food poisoning," she said. "The chicken, most likely."

Ethan nodded, grateful that he hadn't bullied her into eating her dinner and regretting he'd been so hungry. He leaned against her, surprised by his own weakness, and let her lead him back to the bedroom. He started for the rocker but she insisted he lie down.

"If anyone spends the rest of the night in the rocker," she said, "it will be me."

Ethan surprised himself again by not arguing. He crawled under the covers, curled on his side, and let her tuck another blanket around him.

"Perhaps if I order some tea and dry toast?" she suggested. "It always helped me with sickness in the mornings."

"I'm not pregnant."

Michael sat beside him and stroked the hair at his temple. "Are you certain? The world's changing, Mr. Stone."

He closed his eyes. "Very amusing."

* * *

In the morning Ethan was only marginally better. Michael got ready for work in the dressing room so she wouldn't disturb him. When she came out, wearing a plain gray gown with a white smock, her mother's brooch at the collar, Ethan was pulling on his trousers.

"Oh no," she said. "Back in bed."

"If you're going, then so am I."

"That's ridiculous, Ethan. You don't feel well enough to be going with me to the office."

There was a world of truth in that. "Then stay here and take care of me."

"And you're not that sick." She brushed her hair and arranged it carefully at the back of her head. Her spectacles were lying on top of the vanity. She put them on and regarded him over the wire rims as he struggled with the buttons on his shirt. "Ethan, please go back to bed. I've already arranged with the manager to have someone check on you throughout the day. It's not as if you'll be unattended. There's hot tea and toast waiting for you in the sitting room. Jam if you don't want it dry and orange juice if you're feeling up to it. I'll bring it here if you'll put yourself in bed again."

"I'm not letting you go to the
Chronicle
alone."

"What is it you expect Houston to do? Gun me down in the street? This is New York, Ethan. That kind of thing doesn't happen here."

Ethan sat down. His unsettled, empty stomach growled. His muscles ached in the aftermath of his sudden, acute illness.

"Have you given any thought at all to how long you'll want to be my shadow? A few weeks, a month, six months, a year? If Houston makes no move against me in two years, will that be long enough to convince you he means me no harm? We haven't really talked about this, Ethan, but I envisioned our marriage lasting a lifetime. If you're going to insist living in my pockets, we'll be fortunate to get through the next month."

His head jerked toward her, his eyes narrowed angrily. "And if I don't live in your pockets you might not last a lifetime. What's six months or a year compared to forty or fifty more? I want every one of those years with you, Michael. Don't you dare cheat me."

Michael was silent. Tears welled in her eyes. She took off her spectacles, rested them on the crown of her head, and swiped at her eyes when she couldn't blink back the tears. "I'm being selfish again, aren't I?" she asked. "Just like Mary Francis said. Oh, Ethan, what if I'm not very good at marriage?"

His smile was weak. He patted the space beside him. When she sat down he put an arm around her shoulders. "You're going to be just fine at marriage."

Michael looked at him skeptically, unconvinced.

"Give me fifty years, Michael, and I'll prove it to you."

* * *

The
Chronicle
sent around work for her to do in her suite. It had been months since she had been active as a city reporter anyway. Many of her assignments required research and interviews rather than rushing to the actual scene of a story. She collaborated with some of the site reporters to give background and rich detail to human interest pieces. It was a satisfying compromise to the more demanding role she had once wanted for herself.

Michael leaned back in her chair and massaged her abdomen absently as she considered her last sentence. Her spectacles rested on the tip of her nose and there was a pencil nested in her hair. Her mouth was flat and there was the hint of a furrow between her brows.

Ethan leaned against the door jamb watching her. His eyes were hooded, his smile secretive.

Her gaze focused on him suddenly. "Have you been standing there long?"

"Not long. A few minutes."

"Why are you smiling?"

"It's nothing," he said. "I just like to look at you."

Michael felt her cheeks grow warm. To cover her embarrassment, she took off her glasses, folded the fragile stems and set them down on her papers. "You must be feeling better." Her eyes traveled over the lean, narrow-hipped length of him. His posture was casual, his arms folded across his chest, one leg crossed in front of the other at the ankle. His head was tilted to one side consideringly and a lock of his ebony hair had fallen across his forehead. His eyes were more gray than blue, but warm, like sun-baked slate. "You look better."

Ethan rubbed his jaw. "I shaved. Took a bath."

"I thought you were still sleeping. You should have called me."

"Perhaps when I'm not so weak."

She shook her head at his logic. "That's why I should have helped you."

He snorted lightly. Ethan had other ideas of the proper time to share a bath with Michael. "I think I'd like that tea and toast now. Have you had lunch?"

"I keep some fruit here. I had some of that. But I'll sit with you while you eat." She pushed her chair away from the desk. Ethan straightened in the doorway to let her pass. He managed to steal a swift kiss
and
the pencil.

The tea was cold but a little honey made it palatable. The toast was bone dry, nearly tasteless, just the way Ethan insisted he wanted it.

"You know, I could order something else for you," she said, pointing to the deep maroon sash that alerted the hotel management to the needs of its guests. "I spoke to Mr. Covington about the chicken."

"He's the chef?"