The Tea Rose Part 70

He sat up now, too. "Fiona, Millie and I divorced nearly ten years ago."

"You what?"

"We divorced before our first anniversary. And then I tried to find you. I went to New York. I looked everywhere for you."

"You went to New York," she said hollowly.

"In '89. Just before your wedding."

She suddenly felt lightheaded. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," she murmured.

"I think ... " Joe said, pulling the edges of her blouse together, "I think maybe we should've talked first."

JOE LEANED BACK against a brick wall, part of Oliver's Wharf that ab.u.t.ted the Old Stairs. He shook his head and laughed.

"What?" Fiona asked, biting into a salted, vinegar-soaked chip. She was sitting next to him, eating the fresh order of fish and chips he'd brought from the pub.

"You. This night. It's all a b.l.o.o.d.y wonder." She smiled shyly. "A dream."

"One I never want to wake up from."

"Nor 1."

He looked away, picked at a crumbling brick, then suddenly pulled her to him and kissed her.

She snorted laughter, unable to kiss him back, as her mouth was full of potato. He laughed too, then looked away again. They were strange with each other. Reaching for the other's hand one minute, or staring, captivated, at the other's face. Blushing and awkward the next. So familiar and yet so strange.

They'd been sitting on the Old Stairs, talking, for the better part of an hour. To think he'd been in New York. To think they could've been together years ago. It had made her heart ache to know it, but those years were gone. Swept away like leaves on the water. And nothing would bring them back. But they were here now. Together. Sitting by the river once again.

She had told him everything that had happened to her, from the day he'd left her to a few hours ago, when she'd visited her family's graves and walked to the river. He had told her everything, too. All about the breakup of his marriage. Living in the stable at Covent Garden. Figuring out where she'd gone. Starting his business. Going to New York to find her, and all the dead, lonely years that came after. He told her how he'd never stopped thinking about her, never stopped loving her, and she told him the same thing. There had been some tears, some hard silences. It wasn't easy to talk about these things. There was still sadness, still anger.

But there was joy, too. She could still barely believe that this was Joe sitting next to her. The man she loved, the man she desired, but also her oldest friend. The lad she'd grown up with, the one person who knew her better than anyone else in the whole world.

She looked at him now as he stared out over the water. His eyes were so dark suddenly. They'd lost the light they'd had in them only seconds ago.

"What is it?" she asked, suddenly fearful that he was regretting what they'd done. That he didn't want her after all. That she'd only imagined the things he had said to her under the pilings.

"What's wrong?"

He took her hand. "Nothing," he said. "And everything."

"You're sorry about what happened, aren't you?"

"Sorry! For making love to you? No, Fiona, I'm not sorry about that. I'm scared. Scared you don't want me. Scared we'll leave this place and I'll never see you again. What 1'm sorry for is what I did ten years ago, right 'ere - "

"Joe, you don't have to-"

"I do 'ave to. I am so, so sorry. For everything. For all the pain I caused you."

"It's all right ... "

"No, it's not. It's never been all right. Not since the day I walked up these stairs and walked away from you. I 'urt you that day, I know I did, but all you lost was me. I 'urt myself a million times worse because I lost you. I've wanted you, ached for you, every single day since. Living without you all these years ... " He swallowed hard and Fiona saw a shimmer of tears in his eyes. "It's been like living in a dungeon, without warmth, or light, or 'ope." He took her hands in his again. "I'd give anything to be able to go back and undo it all if I could, but I can't. But if you let me, I'll try so b.l.o.o.d.y 'ard to make you 'appy. I meant what I said earlier. I love you, Fee. With all my 'eart. Do you think we could start over? Do you think you could forgive me?"

Fiona looked into the eyes she knew so well, the eyes she loved. They were full of sorrow, full of pain. She wanted so much to take that pain away. "I already have," she said.

Joe took her in his arms and held her. They stayed that way for a long time, then he said, "Come 'ome with me."

She was about to tell him she would when a pair of feet appeared at the very top of the Old Stairs and a voice bellowed, "There you are, you b.l.o.o.d.y stupid girl!"

It was Roddy and he was furious. "What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you, Fiona? Don't you have any sense at all? It's nearly ten o'clock! Andrew came to the station hours ago to tell me you'd gone off by yourself. I've been waiting for you at the Mayfair house. And worried sick! T'ought William Burton got you. Where have you been!"

"Just here ... I was ... um ... walking along the sh.o.r.e. Looking for stones."

"She found a pair, too," Joe said under his breath.

Fiona gasped, choked, then started coughing. She'd forgotten about his wicked sense of humor. His bawdy, teasing ways. When she finally got her wind back, she started laughing hysterically.

"It's not b.l.o.o.d.y funny!" Roddy shouted. ''I've told you five hundred times how dangerous it is for you to be out by yourself!"

"No, you're right. It isn't funny," Fiona said, struggling to control herself. ''I'm sorry, Uncle Roddy. I didn't mean to scare you, but I'm fine. n.o.body bothered me. I just walked here from Whitechapel, met up with Joe and lost track of the time."

"Aye, I can see that," he growled.

"Come and sit with us," she said, patting the step above her. ''I've been perfectly safe all evening. Really."

"Depends on what you call safe," he said, giving Joe a pointed look. Still grumbling, he trotted down the steps and sat with them. Fiona handed him what was left of her supper. He ate a chip, then another, then finished her haddock. ''I'm b.l.o.o.d.y famished, I am. Didn't have any supper.

Spent the whole night looking for you. I was about to call out half the London police force."

"I'll get you a proper supper. Sit here. I'll be right back," she said, hopping up. She scrambled up the steps and headed for the pub, eager to escape Roddy's wrath. Hopefully, by the time she got back, he'd have cooled off a bit.

Joe and Roddy watched her go. When she was out of sight, they looked at each other, then stared at the black water.

"Gone back to New York, eh?" Joe said.

"If I see one tear on account of you, just one, I swear to G.o.d ... "

"You won't."

There was a minute or so of silence, then Roddy said, "She needs head examined. You both do. If for no other reason than sitting here eating greasy chips by this ugly river when you've both got enough bra.s.s to eat in a decent place."

Chapter 81.

Roddy toed .the lifeless, blood-covered body of Bowler Sheehan as it lay p.r.o.ne on the exercise yard of Newgate Prison. A straightedge, still open, lay on the ground nearby. "I don't suppose anyone confessed to this?" he said to the guard.

The man snorted. "They're all saying 'e did it 'imself, sir."

Roddy raised an eyebrow. "He just took a razor that he surely didn't have on him when he came in here and cut his own t'roat. Right in the middle of the yard?"

The guard looked uncomfortable. "We know one of them did it, but no one's talking."

"What about the other guards?" "None of them saw anything, either."

"That's b.l.o.o.d.y great," Roddy fumed. "As if I didn't have enough on me plate. Now this mess." He knelt down and gave the gash across Sheehan's throat a cursory examination. Why? he wondered. Why kill him? Sure, some of the other prisoners undoubtedly had grievances against him, but bad blood between criminals was nothing unusual and no thug with half a brain would stick his own neck out so far over a grudge. There was only one thing that could make a man take a risk like that-a very large sum of money. Someone had bribed one of the prisoners, or one of the guards, to do for Bowler.

On the way out of the prison, Roddy stopped by the warden's office to thank him for notifying him of Sheehan's demise. He'd been summoned to Newgate because the warden knew he had a special interest in the case and would wish to be apprised of any developments concerning the prisoner such as said prisoner getting himself topped. In the warden's office, he met Alvin Donaldson. Donaldson had also been informed of Sheehan's death because of Sheehan's history with William Burton and its possible pertinence to his own case.

"You think it's Burton, don't you?" he asked Roddy as they walked out together.

"The t'ought had crossed my mind," Roddy replied.

"What does it take to convince you, O'Meara? The bloke's gone. We're certain of it. We're putting all our efforts toward working with the French. We've sent pictures. As soon as they see him, they'll nab him."

"Just because he didn't put in an appearance at his house or Mincing Lane you t'ink he's off holidaying on the continent?" Roddy asked. He didn't like Donaldson. The man was too confident in his own opinions. Too c.o.c.ky.

"No, I think he's on the continent because he's got nowhere else to go. There's a reward out.

You know that. Your own Mrs. Soames upped it to a thousand pounds," Donaldson said. "Let's just say for argument's sake that he was lying low here in some lodging house ... you think his fellow lodgers wouldn't turn him in? For a thousand quid? They'd grab him so fast his head would spin."

Roddy made no reply.

"You know I'm right. And if you ask me ... "

"I didn't."

" ... you should be looking at our friend across the river, Sid Malone.

Word is he wanted to pay Sheehan back for topping Quinn."

"Tell me somet'ing I don't know."

"I should also tell you that we're removing the men we've had stationed at Mrs. Soames's house."

"What? Why the divil are you doing that?" Roddy asked angrily.

"Top bra.s.s says Burton's gone. And if he's gone there's no further need to protect Mrs.

Soames from him. We can't tie up men for no good reason."

"I don't t'ink that's a good idea. Not at all. What if you're wrong?"

Donaldson smiled. "We're not."

Then he left, and left Roddy fuming in the prison's vestibule. He looked over the visitors' log on his way out, but no names popped out at him. He hadn't really expected any to. Anyone smart enough to get Sheehan killed was smart enough to put a fake name in the log.

As he walked back to the station house, he turned Donaldson's words over and over in his mind. His intuition told him Burton had done for Sheehan, but intuition was only a feeling. Logic told him otherwise. Maybe Burrton really was no longer in London. As he allowed this thought to sink in, Roddy realized how much he had wanted him to be. No matter how confident Donaldson sounded, if Burton was on the continent it would be very difficult, maybe impossible, to catch him.

He would visit Fiona later and tell her what had happened to Sheehan.

She would want to know. He'd tell her Sid Malone was probably the one responsible.

It was a hard thing to face-the fact that Burton might never be apprehended, that he might never be brought to justice for what he'd done. But maybe it was time he accepted it. Maybe it was he himself, not Alvin Donaldson, who had too much confidence in his own opinions.

Chapter 82.

Joe took a mouthful of wine, swallowed it, and looked at the naked o woman drowsing peacefully next to him. She lay on her side. Her black hair was loose and spilling across his white pillow. A sheet covered most of her body, except her lovely arms and one long, perfect leg. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He had just made love to her. In his bed. With a fire casting its warm glow across her skin.

She hadn't cried afterward, as she had at the river, and he was glad of it. He never wanted her to cry again. She'd just nestled into his sheets, flushed and smiling, sighed prettily, and closed her eyes.

Today was Sat.u.r.day-a full week after they'd met again by the river. The happiest week of his life. He still couldn't believe what had happened, still couldn't believe that she was his again. Every morning when he woke, he was immediately gripped by panic, terrified that he'd only dreamed that night by the river and the glorious days that followed. But then he would roll over in his bed and pull her to him as she mumbled sleepy protests, rea.s.suring himself that she was no dream, that she was real.

He kissed her head now. Her hair was damp. They'd been walking in his orchards, looking at the river, when the skies had suddenly opened. They'd run for the house, shrieking and laughing, and had arrived in his kitchen drenched.

He'd made a quick detour to the cellar for a dusty bottle of Haut-Brion before leading her upstairs to his bedroom. There, he'd built her a fire and poured her a gla.s.s of the rich old Bordeaux to take the chill away. They'd sat talking by the fireplace, drying oft: for all of sixty seconds before he had her up out of the chair, undressed, and in his bed. He was so hungry for her. So eager to see her lovely body, to hold her and touch her, to take his time as he hadn't been able to at the river. In her arms, looking into her eyes, it was as if they'd never been apart. Knowing that she forgave him, that she loved him and wanted to be with him, he had finally felt the sadness, his constant companion, leave him and an indescribable joy take its place.

Rain sheeted against the windows now. He looked out of one and saw the branches of an ancient oak tossing crazily in the wind. Let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d blow over, he thought happily, let the whole world blow away. This room, the two of them, was all that mattered. He pulled the sheet up over Fiona's shoulders, got out of bed, and slipped on a robe.

"Don't go," she murmured.

''I'm not, luv. Just putting another log on the fire." He put two more on, poking and prodding them until they caught and the flames were blazing nicely. He refilled their gla.s.ses, then padded across the bedroom to rummage in his highboy. He had something for her. Something he wanted so much to give her. Anyone in his right mind would say it was too soon. Far too soon. But he wasn't in his right mind. He was in love. And for him, it couldn't be soon enough.

He found what he was looking for, a small red leather box marked "Lalique, Paris." He placed it on his night table, shrugged his robe off, and climbed back into bed. Fiona stirred. He'd meant to put the little box in her hands and have her open it. But since he'd gotten up, she'd kicked the sheet off. He looked at her. Her round, luscious b.r.e.a.s.t.s were as beautiful as he remembered. His eyes traveled downward, following the contours of her body. He wanted her again. Very much. The box would have to wait.

He leaned over her and kissed her. She stretched lazily and smiled. He cupped her breast and squeezed it, bending his head down to tease her nipple with his lips. "Mmmmm," she sighed. His hand moved down, over her waist, to her thighs, and then between them. He stroked her there, gently at first, then harder. He slipped his fingers inside of her, into the sweet softness of her, making her wet and breathless, then stopped, pausing to kiss her belly, the smooth curve of her hip.

"You better finish what you started, lad," he heard her whisper.

He grinned at her, enjoying the fact that she was hot and bothered. He loved making her want him, loved knowing the heat on her skin, and inside her, and the low moans in her throat were all for him. He didn't want to be inside her now, though. Not yet. He wanted to feel her need for him, to hear his name on her lips. To know she was his again. Only his.

He bit her ear softly, making her giggle, then nuzzled her neck. He moved down, taking her pretty nipples into his mouth again, trailing his tongue over her rosy skin, lower and lower, until he was just where he wanted to be. Then he parted her legs and tasted her. She didn't protest this time as she had when she was a girl, instead she opened herself to him, shivering with pleasure as he explored her. After only a few seconds he heard a small cry, felt her body tremble, heard his name whispered.