by Denise Eagan
His fought for, and managed, a grin. “Well ma’am, I reckon I just don’t feel comfortable speakin’ to you that way. Your friends’ll no doubt put it off as my odd Western ways.”
Sighing, she shook her head. “What a stubborn man you are. I suspect they’ll thoroughly enjoy your odd Western ways, at all rate, and if they don’t, I shall thoroughly enjoy watching them try to make heads or tails out of them. Come along, then, the carriage is this way.”
He fell in step behind her, his heart lurching to life with every seductive movement of her hips. Yup, he could deny it from now ’til doomsday, but he’d missed more than her mind and her laugh. He’d missed it all, including her persistent, wanton attempts at seduction.
He was a dead duck.
***
“Thank you so much, Margaret,” Star said to her maid after she finished securing a simple gold locket around her neck. “That should do until bedtime. I expect it won’t be a late night since we’ve no plans other than dinner. You may sleep in tomorrow, as well. I’ll be taking a morning row on the Charles and not require assistance until mid-morning.”
Margaret, niece to her mother’s much-beloved maid, Maeve, was a pretty, Irish girl with dark hair and rosy cheeks. She caught Star’s eyes in the mirror and several thin lines creased her brow. “If you’re sure, ma’am? We do have Mr. McGraw staying.”
Star smiled back reassuringly while reaching for her jewelry box to find her emerald earrings. Her hands were shaking, drat it all. “Regardless, I should never wish for tight lacing for my morning exercise. Get some extra sleep, by all means, for you know that now he’s arrived, our schedule shall be hectic.”
“Yes ma’am,” she said. She left as Star clipped on her second earring. Rising, Star surveyed her image in the full-length mirror across the room. For her first night with Nicholas, she’d chosen a simple green silk with no train and a modest bodice. The locket hung low enough on her neck, however, to draw a man’s eyes to those curves. The gentle up sweep of her chignon allowed an ample view of her earrings, dangling just low enough to emphasize the slim line of her neck. The effect was, she hoped, seductive without being brazen. Nicholas had made his view on wanton displays perfectly clear, and yet she could not resist trying to whet his sensual appetite. Not after meeting him at the train depot, not after he had looked at her like that, his gaze feasting upon her person like a starving man at a banquet.
Her legs turning to jelly, she sank back into her dressing table chair. She hadn’t expected that reaction. Or hers. From the moment their eyes locked in that station, she’d felt slightly feverish and her stomach had been alive with butterflies. Madness, for the months of correspondence between them ought to have guaranteed a comfortably platonic friendship. She had tried to get up a flirtation via the U.S. mail, but he’d answered her attempts in such a dry, even tone that she’d abandoned it after a few letters.
From that point on, most of their correspondence had centered on the movement. Although certainly misguided, Nicholas stated his thoughts with such clear logic that it forced her to sharpen her arguments. So well, in fact, that Alicia Blackwell, noting the change, had given her a weekly column in the Woman’s Journal. Additionally, Blackwell’s mother, famed reformer Lucy Stone, had sent Star several speech writing requests, along with an invitation to speak at Saratoga Springs in June. Since everyone knew Star was a mediocre speaker, she took the invitation as it was meant, a token honor for her hard work, one she’d not have received without Nicholas to refine her points.
He’d also shared anecdotes about the Bar M. His wry, self-deprecating humor often caused her to laugh out loud. His gift for description had made her homesick for the crackling heat of the huge stone fireplace and for evenings spent in Melinda’s parlor, with the children nattering while Jim and Melinda bickered good-naturedly. She’d missed Colorado, although now, with summer approaching, her blood had started bubbling with the anticipation of taking The Princess out for a sail through Newport bay.
Tonight, though, her blood bubbled for Nicholas.
It was worse than at the Bar M. In Colorado she’d only been fighting passion. Now the added bond of friendship brought that passion to new heights. If he refused to return it . . . well her sanity would surely not survive these next few months.
She glanced at the clock. Drat, but she was late for dinner. Rising, she took one last look at herself in the mirror and smoothed out non-existent creases in her dress. Still shaky, she left the room to join her family in the parlor. As she entered the room, Father and Nicholas rose, but her eyes rested longest on Nicholas in black pinstripes and silk waistcoat, with a silver and black patterned tie, perfectly knotted. He smiled at her. Bright admiration warmed his gaze, leaving her uncommonly lightheaded.
“Star, you look marvelous,” Father said. Dressed impeccably in charcoal grey, he bestowed his slight smile upon her, while giving her hands a light squeeze in greeting.
“Well there you are, honey,” Mother said, from the sofa, where she sat in a violet taffeta gown. “We were wondering what might be keeping you. You’re never late for dinner.”
“As it is so rare to have such an honored guest for dinner, I took some extra pains in my wardrobe. It is so gratifying to have you here at last, Nicholas. You cannot imagine how much Mother and Father have wished for your visit.”
A gleam entered his lovely blue eyes. “Reckon I’ve got some notion, ma’am. Made it clear often enough. Now that I’m here, though,” he added with a sweetly affectionate smile at Mother. “I can’t figure why I waited so long.”
To drive me to distraction, Star thought as her heart fluttered. He was as handsome as ever, although in a more sophisticated way. His clothes were expertly tailored, the cut and style fashionable without pretention. If Melinda had prepared him for Society as well as she had dressed him, none of them would have cause to blush. Yet for all Nicholas’s newfound urbanity, the attractive aspects of his cowboy roughness remained: his tanned skin, his calloused hands, the directness of his gaze and speech.
“Perhaps we can make your stay even more comfortable,” Star said and crossed the room to a corner to retrieve a long oblong box, wrapped in brown paper and string. She held it out to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, taking it.
Goodness, but he still smelled of pine and leather and gun smoke. The scent rose from his skin and floated under nose, then flowed across her nerves like a warm breeze on a cold winter morning. “It’s a gift,” she said.
He looked a trifle chagrined. “I didn’t bring you anything. I didn’t know—”
“Why, you brought yourself,” she interrupted, employing a lightly flirtatious tone to set him—and her—at ease. “The pleasure is all ours, Nicholas.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mother exchange looks with Father.
Nicholas studied her, and then shook his head, bemused. “If you don’t beat all, ma’am. Well then, let’s see what we have.” He sat on the edge of the sofa, tore off the paper and opened the box. With a perplexed expression on his countenance, he withdrew a black cane, nestled in tissue paper. “Well thank you kindly ma’am,” he said, and ran his hand over the wooden handle. “I don’t have a cane. Fashionable, are they? Hadn’t reckoned on that.”
“They are on occasion,” Father said as strolled forward to peer down at it.
“It is more than a cane, however,” Star said with a smile. “It’s a gun.”
Nicholas looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. “A gun?” A slow smile spread across his face, lighting his eyes, which made her fluttering heart jerk. “A Remington Rifle Cane.”
“I thought you might miss your gun belt.”
“A mite, maybe,” he said, running an appreciative hand over the shiny wood. “I’ve read about ’em. Never saw one though. Mighty thoughtful of you, ma’am.” He flashed her a mischievous grin and added, “Reckon you wanted one for yourself, too.”
She laughed. “If only I were a man.”
“Now t
hat’d be a pity,” he said. His eyes gleamed up at her. And then, as if suddenly remembering where he was, he regarded the weapon again. “So how do you use it? Do you have one, Ward?”
“No, sir,” Father said, his eyes watching them with amusement. “I confess I’m not much of a marksman. I suspect Star can show you how it works.”
“The shopkeeper showed me everything,” she said enthusiastically. She pulled a chair over. After drawing in one lovely pine-and-leather breath, she said, “Allow me to demonstrate. It’s quite inventive, actually. . .” For the next several minutes, she went over the details as Father watched in interest. Even Mother peeked at it, although she cared little about guns.
“So it takes a 32 rimfire cartridge,” Nicholas observed, as the parlor door opened and Herman entered. “The original was a percussion rifle.”
“Dinner is served,” Herman said.
“Thank you,” Mother replied. “We’ll be in presently.”
“Percussion?” Star asked, ignoring the interchange. “Is a 32 more dangerous?”
He shrugged. “Both’ll do the trick. Just interesting is all.”
“I’m sure it is,” Mother said, traces of irony in her voice. “Lee expects to visit tomorrow. He’s been staying in Marblehead with Jess. No doubt he’ll know where you may shoot it. And now, if you would be so kind as to take my arm into dinner, Nicholas?”
“I’d be honored, Morgan,” he said, reluctantly returning the gun to the box. Rising, he gave Star a large, genuine, smile. “Thanks again. It’s a great present.”
Her heart lurched. A great present. And dangerous, like its new owner. Ah, but there was far more danger in that smile than in any gun.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing
Dressed in plain rose-printed muslin and her hair tied in a simple ribbon, Star approached the dining room. When she detected her father’s voice, she stopped in her tracks. To whom was he talking? Mother never rose before mid-morning, and Lee was not due until the afternoon. Port was in New York. Nicholas? Surely he would be sleeping after the exhaustion of his travels. Laughter rumbled through the door. Her heart danced in joyful anticipation as she turned the knob.
“And that,” a voice said—a delicious shudder ran down her spine, the kind only a certain male voice had ever created—“is how Monty Lost His Moo.”
Father sat at the head of the breakfast table with Nicholas to his right. The morning sun shone through two long, green-draped windows, creating rectangular patterns on the white table cloth and half-full china plates. Both men chuckled as she crossed a rose and green carpet.
“It was the first, I expect, of many much-needed lessons that the West taught my ne’er-do-well son,” Father said.
“Leastways it taught him to steer clear of the business end of a bull. He never did go back to ranchin’ after that. Figured card playing was less dangerous.”
“Unless, of course, one of the players should find occasion to show him the ‘business end’ of a gun. Ah, Star, good morning, my dear,” her father said.
“Oh, I reckon Monty could diffuse that kinda situation with a couple jokes. Got himself a wicked sense of humor, and that’s a fact. Mornin’ ma’am,” Nicholas said, raising his head to nod a greeting. His eyes caught hers and her stomach leapt.
“Father, Nicholas,” she said. She strode to the sideboard, helping herself to a rasher of bacon, eggs and a muffin. Would Nicholas think her choices indelicate? A proper lady would eat a light breakfast, but she required something far more substantial for her morning row on the Charles. “I had not expected to see you this early in the morning, Nicholas.”
“Used to early hours, I reckon.”
“As a working man ought to be,” Father approved, for even with all his aristocratic blood, her father was a true Bostonian, forever lashed to work.
“Even after so many days of travel?” Star asked. She took a seat across the table from Nicholas. He was dressed in a checkered navy blue morning coat, unbuttoned and hanging open to sport a matching waistcoat and white shirt. The blue brought out the color of his eyes, the white his unfashionably tanned face and hands—breathtaking. “I should think that you’d be exhausted.”
He watched her take a mouthful, a sparkle of appreciation entering his eye. Apparently he didn’t consider a healthy appetite in a woman cause for censure. Her shoulders lightened. “Doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to sit on a train,” he answered.
“No, but most travelers sleep poorly.”
“Ai—” He hesitated. “It’s nothing compared to a cattle drive, ma’am.”
“Ahh,” she said, smiling. “Why now that I reflect upon it, the men whom I’ve heard complain about train travel have never made that comparison. Do you think I ought to suggest it to them?”
“What, working a drive?” Nicholas asked, a smile playing on his lips. “Just as long as you make sure I’m there when you do. I’d pay to see the expression on their faces, tho’ I sure as hel—heck won’t invite ’em along on one o’ mine.”
Father chuckled and, having finished his breakfast, sat back in his chair to sip his coffee.
“How very disobliging of you, sir,” Star answered. “Are you implying that my friends would be more hindrance than help? I must point out that many of them are very hardworking men.”
“Many?” Father asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s a bit of an exaggeration, Star, don’t you think?”
She tilted her head. “They are your friends as well, Father.”
“They are,” he agreed, “but I’m not so deluded as to refer to them as hardworking,” Placing his cup in its saucer, he rose. “And now, if you would give me leave, Star, Nicholas, I do have work to attend.”
Alarmed, Star looked at her father. For the first time, she noticed that he was dressed for the office—shirt, tie and grey suit. For rowing he generally abandoned his collar, tie and waistcoat. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “But you promised to join me this morning!”
“I apologize, my dear, but something has arisen. Perhaps Nick will agree to accompany you, if you ask nicely.” His eyes twinkled at her, out of kindness or carefully planned deceit, she couldn’t tell. His countenance was as cool as usual. Father, was, after all, the King of Deceit. He’d learned it from his wife. “Nick,” he continued turning to Nicholas whose face had settled into lines of wariness. “I suspect you would enjoy the exercise after being cooped up on a train for so long.”
“Sure,” Nicholas said cautiously, “if you don’t mind me tagging along, ma’am. Maybe, tho’ you’d like to have the boat to yourself?”
“Oh never fear, Nicholas!” she answered, controlling the urge to jump up and hug her father. “We own several canoes. You’ll enjoy it, for there are few better ways of starting your sightseeing of Boston and Cambridge than from the Charles.”
***
“We share the boathouse with several other families,” Star said as she opened one of the double doors to the boathouse. The smell of river water and wet wood assailed her as she entered. Nicholas followed. It was dark and cool, and she rubbed her arms, nodding to two canoes next to the door. “The two green ones are ours.”
“You sure we don’t need just one?”
“I want to row as well.”
“Two it is, then,” he said, removing his top hat. Nicholas handed it to her, and then moved forward to pick up the first of the canoes. His expression was uncommonly tense, as it had been since Father first mentioned rowing. He’d been reticent on the carriage ride over as well. Was spending time alone with her so difficult? she wondered. They’d enjoyed corresponding so much. . . .
A few minutes later Nicholas placed the second canoe on the edge of the shore. “You really sure we need two?”
She smiled at him from under her straw hat. “Yes. We generally travel upstream for about a mile or two. It’s more difficult rowing, but allows for an easier return.”
&nbs
p; “O.K.,” he said. He set his back resolutely, took his hat from her and tossed it into one canoe. Afterward he proceeded to remove his frock coat and lay it in the canoe as well. She watched him, temporarily engrossed with the way his shirt stretched across those wide shoulders.
He turned to her. Her mouth had gone dry, stealing speech. She could only stare. He lifted his eyebrows. “What? Don’t tell me it’s fashionable to row while wearing my coat.” He removed the links from his cuffs, slipped them into his pocket and then rolled his sleeves up, exposing sinewy, tanned forearms.
“Father always does,” she answered when she could speak.
He shrugged. “Reckon he’s got a reputation to maintain. Me, well we’ll just lay it down as my crude Western ways.” He leaned over to push her canoe deeper into the water, then holding onto the edge, nodded at the bench across the middle. “Go ahead, get in. I’ll follow.”
She didn’t want to get in. She wanted to watch him remove his waistcoat as well.
Star settled herself on the bench and picked up the oars. He pushed her off, and she started forward, pulling the canoe thought the water with slow circular motions. The muscles in her shoulders burned for several strokes, before settling into the familiar exercise. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nicholas slide in to her right, still wearing his waistcoat. As they broke up the sun-patterned water with each dip and tug of their oars, the tree-lined riverbanks glided by them. Star breathed deeply of the crisp morning air, letting it flow through her lungs to feed her exercise-quickened heart. They continued silently under the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge and continued until they came to a bend in the river. Star released her oars, letting them rest in the oarlocks.
“Taking a break?” Nicholas asked. He moved his canoe a couple of feet from her and let his oars go, as well.
“This is where we turn around,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. Perspiration tickled the back of her neck. In an effort to keep up with Nicholas, she’d rowed faster than usual. He, on the other hand, scarcely seemed winded. In fact, he raised his arms over his head, clasping his hands together as he stretched his muscles. He looked for all the world as if he’d just risen from bed instead of having rowed a mile up river. He lowered his arms again and gave her a lazy smile. If not for that divine display of masculinity, she’d have been vexed.