Home Before Sundown Page 11

  Tom watched as the sweeper continued down the street, then turned, about to walk up the cobblestone drive. He came to an abrupt halt and rocked back.

  George stood there, Tom’s Navy revolving pistol in his hand, the muzzle pointed toward the ground.

  “George?”

  “I know you told me to stay in the stable, but I wasn’t going to let you face that dog without help if you needed it.”

  Tom held out his hand, and George placed the pistol in it.

  “I’m not sorry, Papa.” He peeked up at Tom through lashes as long as his mother’s.

  “Do you know what it would have done to me if you got hurt?”

  “I know. I’d feel the same way if something happened to you. But you taught me how to shoot. It would’ve been okay.”

  Tom blew out a breath. George was a good shot. “Go take the dogcart back to Hudson’s.”

  “Yes, sir.” But he paused for a moment. “It didn’t have rabies, did it? I am sorry for making a big thing out of nothing.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  George’s expression brightened. “I reckon so.” He started back to the stable, and Tom fell into step beside him. “I’ll take Frank home after we return the cart.”

  “All right, son.”

  George grinned up at him, and Tom rested his hand on his son’s hair.

  It didn’t take long to get the dogcart out of the stable and Sancho Panza heading out to the street. The mule was once again his usual calm self, and Tom wondered if it had been the boys’ own distress that had set him off.

  Tom put the guns away.

  “What was it, Tom?”

  “Dog must have gotten sick. It was dead in the street.”

  “Was it rabies?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She tilted her head and met his gaze steadily.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d say turning into the road and seeing it there all of a sudden startled the boys.” He hustled Olivia back to the cottage. He inhaled deeply once they entered. “You’re right. This does smell wonderful.”

  “Mrs. Hall says it will be another hour.”

  “Why don’t you take that nap, then?”

  “Will you…will you join me?”

  “I’d like that.” Tom followed her into the bedroom. He’d share the bed with his bride while she slept, but all he planned to do was hold her. “I told George to remove the covers.”

  She smiled up at him. “He did such a good job cleaning up the cottage.”

  “He’s a good boy.”

  “Yes, he is.” She removed her bonnet and set it on the dresser.

  “I’ll get your shoes,” Tom said. He knelt before her and took her foot—such a dainty little foot—and unbuttoned a shoe and eased it off, then did the same with the other shoe and set her foot down.

  “Thank you, Tom.” She rested a hand on his shoulder, and he had to struggle to conceal a shiver of desire. It had been a long time since he’d been touched with such tenderness.

  He rose and stepped away, but he had a difficult time tearing his gaze from her petite form. To keep himself busy, he went to the bed. He felt Olivia’s gaze on him, watching as he folded down the covers.

  “Oh! Did George do that? It’s so sweet of him!” Long-stemmed roses were scattered across the mattress. She picked one up, then gave a cry of pain.

  “What is it?”

  “It still has its thorns.”

  Tom turned pale. If Olivia had changed into her nightdress, had gotten into bed in the dark without seeing the roses…Her tender flesh would have been torn and scored by the cruel thorns.

  “I don’t know what George was thinking.” He carefully removed all the flowers and made sure no thorns were left in the linens. “I’ll have a talk with him. Get some rest now, querida.”

  “I’m sure it was a simple mistake. Please don’t hit him!”

  “Why would you think I’d hit my son?”

  She flushed and worried her lower lip. It was a long second before she said, “Father….”

  Of course, it was something she’d come to expect; her own father—the bastard—had beaten her, at least once, and possibly more.

  Tom took her in his arms and dropped a kiss on her hair. “I wouldn’t ever do that. Not to George. Not to you. Not to our children.”

  But he was concerned. His son had seemed so pleased that Tom had married Olivia. What could have happened that would cause him to do such a mean-spirited thing to a woman who’d been nothing but kind to him?

  “Try to get some rest.” He patted her hand and left her there, striding into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Hall looked up from the dough she was rolling out. “I brought some blueberries I put up last season. I thought a pie would be nice for dessert.”

  “Thank you, yes. That would be nice.” He knew his expression had to be preoccupied at best, and he offered her a smile.

  “What pretty flowers!”

  “Would you like to take them home? They…er…seem to make Mrs. Pettigrew sneeze.”

  “Ah. Poor lady. A friend of mine has the same reaction to ragweed. Of course that’s not nearly as pretty as roses, which makes your missus’s reaction unfortunate.”

  “Uh…yes. I’ll leave these on the table by the front door. Excuse me, George is home, and I need to speak with him.”

  “What a very nice boy he is.”

  “Yes.” But was he? Tom went to the front of the house. “George.”

  “Hi, Papa. I like Frank. He’s a—”

  “I need to talk to you,” Tom said in Spanish.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Do you want to tell me about these?” He held out the roses.

  “The roses?” George looked perplexed. “They’re pretty.”

  Tom sighed. “I found these on the bed. The thorns are still in place. If Miss Olivia had lain down on them, she would have been hurt.”

  George stared at him, his mouth agape, and then his gaze narrowed and his mouth snapped shut. “That b-witch.”

  “What?”

  “Mrs. O’Connor.” George stared at the flowers with loathing. “When I got home, she was here. Everything was neat and tidy. She said it was to make up for last evening.”

  “Hmm.”

  “She wasn’t expecting me—I don’t think she was expecting anyone to be here. When she saw the duck, she took the stew she’d brought and left.”

  “Mrs. O’Connor brought stew?”

  “Yeah. She said it was for Mama.”

  “And she took it with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She brought the roses?”

  “I don’t know how they could have gotten here otherwise. Papa—”

  “Go saddle Sunrise for me. I’m going to have a little talk with Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “Yes, sir.” George left the cottage, and Tom placed the roses on the table by the door. Then he strode into the bedroom.

  Olivia was still sitting on the side of the bed. “Oh, Tom, please don’t be cross with George. There must be some explanation—”

  “There is. It seems Mrs. O’Connor paid a visit before George got home from the butcher.”

  She stared at him, her face pale. He decided not to mention anything about the stew their former landlady had brought and then been at such pains to remove.

  “I’m going out for a little while. Rest, querida. George is taking care of the mule, and Mrs. Hall has dinner in hand.”

  “All right, Thomas.”

  “I shouldn’t be too long.” He crossed the room, tipped her chin up, and placed a soft kiss on her lips. After a brief touch to her hair, he turned on his heel and strode out of the house.

  * * * *

  Tom mounted the mare in one smooth motion and headed toward Mrs. O’Connor’s boarding house. It didn’t take long for him to arrive there.

  He left Sunrise hitched to the picket fence that bordered the property and paced toward the door. He was normally a mild-tempered man, but it almost f
elt as if steam was building up to shoot out of his ears. He climbed the steps and vigorously applied the knocker.

  “Here now…” Mrs. Keogh answered the door, then seemed taken aback to see him standing there. “Mr. Pettigrew?”

  He pushed past her. “I want to see Mrs. O’Connor.”

  “She’s…she’s not feeling well and has taken to her bed.”

  Tom stalked to the staircase and took the steps two at a time.

  “Where are you going? What are you doing?” Mrs. Keogh followed him.

  “I plan to have a talk with Mrs. O’Connor.”

  Before he could get his hand on the doorknob, Mrs. Keogh flung herself in front of him, her arms outstretched, barring his way.

  “You can’t go in there. It isn’t proper.”

  “Is what she tried to do to my wife proper?”

  “What wife? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I married Olivia St. Claire this morning.”

  “Oh…well, congratulations.”

  “Mrs. O’Connor left a bunch of roses on the bed.”

  “Surely that was simply an act of human kindness.”

  “Without removing the thorns.”

  The color leached from her face. “An oversight, I’m certain.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t bet the ranch on it.”

  “Excuse me?” Her confusion was obvious.

  “Tell Mrs. O’Connor if she approaches my family—At. All—she’ll deal with me, and believe me, the results won’t be the sort she’d be happy about.”

  Mrs. Keogh gave a breathless shriek and slid down to the floor, pressing her hand to her bosom. Her legs sprawled out to reveal her cotton stockings and the frill of a petticoat.

  Tom turned and started toward the stairs when the door behind him opened and a shoe went sailing past his head. A glance over his shoulder revealed his former landlady standing there, her bosom heaving, looking somewhat disheveled.

  “She’s not going to survive the birth, you stupid man! How many times do I have to tell you? She’s too young and too narrow in the hips!”

  Tom shook his head. “That’s no concern of yours. Stay away from my family.”

  She shrieked, but he ignored whatever else she had to say and made his way down the stairs and out of the house.

  But on the ride home, Tom considered her words. Olivia was a small woman, and from what he’d seen of Barron Beauchamp, he could tell that even though the man wasn’t big, compared to Olivia, he was. Well, compared to his bride, even his son was big.

  Tom knew what happened when a small mare was bred to a large stallion. The results weren’t good for either the mare or the foal.

  He didn’t want to lose Olivia.

  He shook himself out of his funk. No, the O’Connor bitch had just said those things to get back at him for marrying someone else.

  Olivia was going to be fine.

  She had to be.

  * * * *

  Tom had been unable to sleep, so he’d slipped out of bed and went to the parlor. In spite of his determination, Deirdre O’Connor’s words returned repeatedly to haunt him, and he knew the closer it came to the day Olivia went into labor, the more he would worry.

  He stirred up the banked fire and paced the floor.

  A cry from the loft brought him to a halt. “George?” he called softly. When there was no response, he climbed the ladder. “George!”

  “I’m…I’m sorry, Papa.” It was obvious his son was crying.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I…I wet myself.” The poor boy sounded devastated.

  “It’s all right.” Tom went to the pitcher of water on the chest of drawers under the eave and wet a washrag.

  “It’s not. I’m a big boy, Papa. I’m too old to do something like this.”

  “Don’t be upset. Take off your nightshirt.” Tom waited until his son had done as he said, then handed him the cloth. “Wash up.” Tom took the nightshirt, and sniffed it discreetly. He set it aside and took out a fresh one.

  “I don’t understand how this happened.”

  “George, you didn’t piss yourself.”

  “But—”

  His boy was growing up. He helped George dry himself and put on a clean nightshirt. Then Tom sat down in a rocking chair, and in spite of the fact George was eleven, Tom pulled him onto his lap, and began to explain about wet dreams.

  Chapter 17

  Fecking hell.

  Deirdre stared after the man she’d set her sights on. Things should have worked out. And she fecking knew why they hadn’t.

  Men couldn’t keep their pricks in their breeches when a saucy miss flirted her skirts at them. And while Deirdre wasn’t best pleased, it would have advanced her plans nicely.

  After all, why would a man buy the cow when he’d already sampled the milk? And you couldn’t tell Deirdre O’Connor a virile man like Tom Pettigrew hadn’t sampled Miss High-and-Mighty-St. Claire’s honey pot.

  But who would have thought he’d married her already?

  She swore under her breath.

  “Deirdre!” Eilís clapped her hands to her ears.

  “Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You’ve heard worse.”

  “By my sainted husband, yes, but never by a woman.”

  Deirdre rolled her eyes. “See to dinner. My head is splitting, and I’m going back to bed.” She stormed off before Eilís could say another word and slammed her bedroom door behind her.

  She buried her fingers in her hair, leaving it even more disheveled.

  She’d been waiting impatiently for Tom Pettigrew to come home from work that evening. She had a choice bit of news to impart, and once she had, she was certain they’d see the last of the hoity toity miss in her third floor bedroom.

  He was late however, and after Deirdre poured her little bon mot about the St. Claire wench being in a delicate condition into his ear, he went up to speak with her.

  Deirdre waited a few moments, then slipped into the hall. No one was in this part of the house, and she went to the coat tree by the front door. Tom Pettigrew’s coat hung from it, and she began to go through his pockets as she did every night, usually after everyone had gone to bed.

  Nothing. A handkerchief, a sugar cube, a few pennies.

  She was about to step away, since there was nothing of interest, when she closed her fingers on a slip of paper. She withdrew it from the pocket and unfolded it.

  As she read what was on the paper, her lips tightened, and she could feel her temper begin to flare. It was a receipt for a month’s rent on a cottage in Chelsea. She stood there for a long minute, anger rising in her.

  The sound of a door closing on the third floor jolted her out of her furious thoughts. She returned the paper to the pocket she’d found it in and hurried back into the dining room.

  But instead of turning his back on Olivia St. Claire, he’d defended her.

  It became crystal clear to Deirdre: she would never get Tom Pettigrew and those thousands of acres of land unless she got rid of the little bitch, and she knew the perfect way. They’d had a problem with rats, and she’d purchased some strychnine. She hadn’t had to use it all, and she put the remainder down near the coal cellar. She would have preferred to use laudanum, but she didn’t have any left.

  She’d prepared a pot of lamb stew, spicing it heavily to disguise the taste, then threw on her cloak. She stopped at a flower shop, picked up a dozen roses, an additional “peace offering,” and made her way to the address in Chelsea.

  Tom Pettigrew and that little bitch would no doubt be away from the cottage for the rest of the day, dallying in the hotel where they’d spent the night. Oh, yes, she knew. She had little rag pickers who were more than willing to do a favor in exchange for a penny.

  She let herself into the kitchen and set the pot on the stove. A look around the cottage had her shaking her head. It was a disaster area.

  She worried her lower lip. She’d lost her temper badly the evening befor
e, and it might help to get in the St. Claire bitch’s good graces—make her more inclined to accept the stew—by tidying the rooms.

  She removed covers, scrubbed the floor, and dusted the flat surfaces. In the bedroom, she stared at the bed that bitch would share with Tom Pettigrew. Well, she’d give Miss Olivia St. Claire a night to remember.

  Deirdre realized she wasn’t alone when a sound from the front of the cottage alerted her to the presence of someone else, and she rubbed her hands together in satisfaction.

  Only it wasn’t the little witch. It was George Pettigrew.

  Would nothing go right for her this day?

  And to make matters worse, George informed her his father had married Olivia St. Claire.

  Deirdre had to get out of there. She made her excuses, retrieved the pot of stew, and left.

  The stew was useless, and as she’d stalked away, she’d flung the contents of the pot carelessly to the curb.

  * * * *

  Deirdre hadn’t expected Tom Pettigrew to put two and two together—men could be so thickheaded—but he’d arrived at the boarding house and given her an ultimatum in no uncertain terms: “Stay away from my family.”

  “All right, Tom Pettigrew,” she snarled under her breath after he left. “You’ve made your choice, and you’ll see what happens when you cross Deirdre O’Connor.”

  He’d said something about getting the best doctor for his wife. Deirdre would find out who that was and see about getting hired by him.

  She rubbed her fingertips against her temples. She’d been lying about having a headache, but now it was on her with a vengeance. She got to her feet and opened her bedroom door. Eilis was coming up the stairs, holding a tray.

  “Deirdre. I brought you a cup of tea and some bread and butter. I thought it would help with your headache.”

  “Thank you, Eilis. I apologize for my foul temper. I’m so upset.”

  “I understand, my dear. Get back in bed and let me rub your temples.”

  “That always helps.”

  Deirdre made herself comfortable on the bed and waited while Eilis set the tray down. The woman did have a way with a head rub.

  “You’re so good to me, Eilis. Thank you.”

  Eilis dropped a kiss to her temple.

  In the morning, Deirdre would give some thought to how she would proceed.