“You can predict the outcome.” David echoed her thoughts and sighed. “He became more and more enamored with the life outside his circle and met a woman, well, lots of women, because just one couldn’t satisfy him and...anyway, at the time no one knew where he went. But he was gone.”
Oh no. She bit her lips. Hard.
“Without giving his first wife a Get, without ending the marriage. So she was still bound to him. So she suffered while he lived the life he wanted.” David shook his head, his voice thick.
And if there were any doubts as to who the couple was, all were gone. “How old were you?” she asked.
“Twelve.” He blinked his big dark eyes at her.
“And he left her with nothing. No money.” Not a question, just confirmation.
“No. My uncles had a little for both my sisters’ dowries but not much else. My aunts were married off for intellect, not riches.” David sighed. “And all of them resented him and us. Especially me. They hated that my mother didn’t. Said she coddled me. I promised her, when she was dying, that I’d show them, that I’d prove I wasn’t him. I won a scholarship...but.” It was his turn to bite his lip. “You know the story of Joseph?”
“Someone sold you to a caravan?” She squinted. Could that actually happen in Russia?
David snickered. “Not quite that, but close. The tsar had a plan to control the Jewish population—forced conscription for young Jewish boys. Twenty-five years. They’d come to the towns and collect them. I was supposed to be long gone, to Poznan, but instead... It was clear who was behind it as my place at the gymnasium went to someone else.”
“Who?” Amalia had to grip the chair so not to leap to her feet and demand an answer. “Who would do that to you?”
“My cousin Shmuel.” David didn’t run his hand through his hair this time, he near ripped at it.
Oh god.
Everything inside Amalia deflated. “He went and let you get taken?” Her mind raced, willing a decent explanation, one that wasn’t painful, one that wasn’t a betrayal.
“Well, I did manage to escape. I’ve always had certain skills.” David fiddled with his spoon, eyes on the silver. “Anyway, I’m sure the entire family was behind it.” Without lifting his gaze, he moved his hand onward, fingering the edge of his glass. “Shmuel was slated to be the family leader and I, well, I was the son of a man who abandoned his wife, left her trapped by marriage instead of protected by it. The kind of man who damages the community. Not the kind of man anyone wants to be associated with.”
A million protests sat on the tip of her tongue, a million words of comfort at all the unfairness, except her guilt choked them back. She didn’t have the right. His family wronged him, but she had too.
All that hurt, the hurt born of the rejection from all of them sat right below the surface. And she’d done it too. That December, so many years ago. She’d rejected him and affirmed every insecurity he had.
Because she hadn’t seen him, had been so wrapped up in her own pain and sadness that she’d missed the depth of his. She’d underestimated her own power. Discounted it and crushed him with it. Oh, what a mess.
“I did find my father in Berlin and tried to be like him. Especially as the things he read, the ideas espoused by the circles in which he moved were true and significant. So I cut off my peyos.” He flicked the area over his ears. “They never grew back right. But it taught me a lesson—my new friends would never fully be my friends—that no matter how noble their ideals, I’d never shed enough of who I was for them. I’d never be German. And it had nothing to do with where I was born.
“But I could take what I’d learned and move on.” His gaze drifted and bile rose in her throat. “So I put my tzitzis back on and covered my head and jumped onto a ship west. My father wished me luck. Said I’d be back, that we were alike. Idealists. And I still embraced him before I left, still wanted his approval, his love. And I am like him. A lot.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So you see, I can never marry. How can you trust someone like my father, someone like me not to abuse the arrangement?”
Her mind spun. What should she do? What could she do? She had to walk away. Somehow. Stop whatever this was before it crushed both of them. Before they damaged each other again and again.
Because they were the same, but they weren’t. Because, despite everything, a part of her still believed marriage could work. That if you tried hard enough, with the right person, and made it your own... A lump wound its way back up her throat. She was naïve, wasn’t she? As always. Like a child with fairy tales. That she couldn’t outgrow.
“We should retire,” she managed to say.
His head snapped back towards her and his eyes widened. “Amalia...”
She frowned for a moment, until her own words echoed in her ears. He thought she was propositioning him. Again. She whipped her head from side to side. “No, I mean to sleep. You must be tired. You’ve been working so hard and it’s getting late. We’ll find you your own room and call Meg to help me and—”
He held up his palm. “I haven’t ‘flattered’ you yet.”
Oh god, he really believed she’d force him to do that after what he said. “Please don’t. My asking was unfair. I didn’t understand. I’m sorry, I don’t want—”
David reached over and pressed a finger to her lips, halting her speech. “You make me laugh.” He grabbed her hand. “That first night, when you told that horrible joke—”
“It wasn’t horrible. Thad used to tell it to me and I laughed for hours.” She scooted back and placed her hands on her hips, despite herself.
“‘Why wouldn’t Moses let anyone use his staff?’” He raised an eyebrow.
“‘He couldn’t part with it.’ Funny. Very funny.” She wrinkled her nose at him.
“If you say so.” David tucked in his lips, hiding an obvious smile.
“Must be a language barrier.” Amalia’s innards fizzled once more because she couldn’t help herself, even if she shouldn’t. She crossed her ankles as tight as she could but didn’t dare withdraw from him.
“I’ll let you and Thad think that.” He rubbed the area between her thumb and forefinger through her glove, his eyes locked on hers. “Anyway, the way your entire face lit when you told it to me, how proud you were of it and how you directed all of that towards me, a nothing... I’d sail on a thousand ships, march through a million fields of mosquitoes, face down hordes of cannon fire to see that again. Except...”
“What?” The lump was back.
David tugged at his hair, before frowning a little at her. “Well, I only sort of knew you then. We were young and still forming.”
“And now?” Because she had to ask, despite the danger.
“Now?” A smile flicked on his lips and his eyes twinkled in the dim light. “Let’s just say, as pretty and sweet and adventurous and funny as you were as a teenager, that version of you doesn’t hold a candle to you now—the woman who learns from her mistakes—who keeps climbing and thriving and doing things no one else has ever done. And who cares about other people, her readers, her families, the causes she champions. Who even while being threatened, finds the time to secure a donation for those who need help...”
He laid both palms flat on the table and turned them over, his eyes locking with hers. “I was smitten with young Amalia, but there’s no one I’d rather share dinner with than you, as you are now.”
Damn it all. She should confess, or more, apologize. Tell him she’d lied and explain why, but those words wouldn’t form. Because then they’d be at an impasse, or more he’d confirm that her feelings wouldn’t matter, he could only give what he could give. And it wouldn’t be enough. And she’d break.
She was going to, eventually. But right now, in the candlelight, it somehow didn’t matter.
“Let’s not call Meg,” she whispered. “Come upstairs with me.” She near moaned
the words. “Please, David, now. Don’t make me any promises, we’ll not make any plans. We’ll just be together, as we are now.”
In the most languid way possible he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it once more. She sighed as her chest heaved towards him of its own accord.
“As we are now,” he whispered.
Chapter Fourteen
Amalia said very little on their way up the grand oak staircase and through the yellow gingham wallpapered hall to the room. Not that he made any attempt at pleasantries either. Was he nervous or excited or something else altogether?
Passing a gilt framed mirror, she caught her own reflection and her cheeks tinged pink without the assistance of rouge, or in her case, alkanet stain—much more natural and better for the skin. Something deep within her chest twisted as memories from the first day she met David flooded back.
The unkempt hair and rumpled clothes and the beard—the damned full beard—not what anyone in her circle wore. Not fashionable, but somehow still alluring. Perhaps a bit dangerous.
Even then he’d captivated her. The boyish confidence, the swagger, despite everything else, as if he held all the secrets she should’ve known but never heard.
“Are you all right?” David, now a few feet ahead, turned back to stare, large arms folded across his chest. She blinked up at his stubbled, handsome face.
She should stick to fulfillment she could control. Her column and her charity, which needed her. David was right about that. And that would be her priority. And it would be enough.
Later.
“Amalia?” David approached her, his eyes soft and brimming with concern.
She forced her lips to move even as her mind still churned. “I was noticing that I look a bit...”
“Tired?” He swiped an imaginary lock of hair off his forehead and narrowed his eyes.
“You know that’s not a compliment.” She folded her arms and stuck out her tongue at him, though made a mental note to apply more almond cream later—beauty was effort and determination after all.
He tipped up the corners of his lips. “It applies to me though. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Hopefully, we’ll make the first train and be able to return to Wilmington by late tomorrow night.”
“Safe and sound and in my family’s care.” And you’ll go away. Again.
David glanced at the carpet and made a circle with his toe. “Yes, though, I’ll provide support until the other agents apprehend the culprit. Besides, your brother invited me to a bris, so I’ll be around at least for a few more days to welcome the newest Truitt into the community.”
The tips of Amalia’s fingers tingled. Well, then, they’d better get themselves to Centerville posthaste. “It’s only three days to the bris.”
“Well, there you go. Three more days. At least.” His smile widened a little and her heart pattered.
A less selfish woman would halt the course they were on—not touch him again, set them both free, protect their hearts like he was protecting her body. But she was more villainess than heroine, after all. And good god, she wanted him. Any piece she could have.
He rubbed the back of her sleeve. “Come on, we’ll get you out of these clothes.”
Her stomached flipped as she leaned back a little into him, the scent of wool and coal and oak tickling her nose and sending shivers of desire down her spine.
“And I’m supposed to be the naughty one.” Her voice was husky and thick and so unlike her, well, or at least the her she usually was, or how she always pretended to be. He bent down and his lips brushed her ear as she reached for the door handle.
“No one said that title was yours alone. I’m sure we could find some way to compete for it.”
* * *
David sat on the bed, fiddling with his thumbs, not analyzing the back of Amalia’s head as she sat in front of the small vanity, removing her jewelry and feathers.
A man can only take so much anticipation. Once he’d settled on this disastrous course of action, which would result in his heart being smashed to bits, he’d been ready to tear off every stich of lace and fluff and flounce on her, no matter the price.
He snatched up her discarded gloves and packed them in her case. And squeezed out her bandage and hung it over the low fire to dry. And fiddled with the pillows. Twice. The least he could do was make himself useful.
“You know, if you decide being a Pinkerton isn’t for you anymore, maybe you really could invent the position of male lady’s maid. You have the skills. You could start a union.” Amalia rolled up her skirts and displayed her boots. She bent over, arms dangling above the laces.
“Domestic workers should be unionized, but I don’t think I’m the one to do it.” He craned his neck as she lifted a leg in the air, her gown slipping towards her thigh, revealing stockings and the top of her garters. Her red garters.
“It’d make a fun story.” Amalia swayed a little as she worked to reach her foot again. And failed.
Lace edged garters. With little black bows. “Fun?” He tugged at his collar. Summer was not his friend.
“People would love to read about a wicked widow or divorcee and her male lady’s maid going on an adventure.”
“I didn’t know you wrote fiction.” He took pity on her and forced himself across the room, to kneel in front of her. With quite a bit of regret, he lowered her leg into his lap.
“I don’t, but I’d read something like that.” And she didn’t smooth her skirt. “Many times. In bed.”
He rubbed his eyes. Nope, everything occurring was real and he was awake. Well, when in Rome... He scooted closer. “I don’t doubt it. I’m just not sure it’s legal.”
“Not if Comstock gets his way.” Amalia wriggled her leg at him in silent demand. “People like him have no imagination.”
His fingers shook as he untied Meg’s lopsided knots from the morning. She’d not be leading the domestic workers either. “You seem to have that in spades.”
“Us Truitts are just more creative than most.” Amalia glanced over her shoulder, giving him a knowing smirk. The woman could still flirt like no one’s business.
He finished the first shoe and made quick work with the second, making the mistake of leaving her stocking foot in his lap, which she glided across, up his thigh until he caught it between both hands.
“Clearly.” Fire, his body was on fire. Need. To. Stay. In. Control. Or tip the scales because if he lost control, he’d lose any last semblance of decorum and propriety and self-preservation. He stroked her foot. “So, Miss Creative, what are you imagining now in that mind of yours?”
“Um, I don’t know.” Her breath hitched. And was she panting? Score one for him.
“Really?” He rubbed her ankle. “I’m a bit disappointed. I thought you were braver than that. I mean you kissed me that first night on the terrace.”
“That I did. And I came to your room. Each time.” Amalia tipped her chin in a defiant manner. “And right now I’m being very brave. I’m being threatened and I haven’t once been all ‘woe is me,’ except maybe during the rat, but that got to you as well.” With a definite flounce she stood and dropped her skirt, before turning around, throwing her curls over her shoulder, and indicating to her buttons. “Don’t tell me it didn’t. You could barely get rid of the thing.”
“Maybe.” So many buttons. If only he could rip.
Bad David. Ever since he read that first book in Berlin, the one with the illustrations, he’d had quite a few rather interesting flights of fancy regarding his first time. But none could top the current situation. Nor really any situation with Amalia.
“Not maybe. Though we should probably be on alert. I don’t have many friends in this town. And the ones I had, well, their husbands weren’t exactly admirers. They used to give Elias an earful.” Amalia turned around and for the first time, a shadow fell over her face.
/> “If they weren’t, that was their loss. And your former husband’s if he didn’t properly defend you. As if he’s one to talk. I recall him being rather stiff and dour.” He paused in his folding to emphasize the point. “He’s heroic and everything, but putting the two of you together is like trying to cross a...a...race horse with a hunting dog.” He laid the pieces of her outer dress on a bedside table, the iridescent beads glowing in the firelight. “That isn’t insulting, is it?”
“I suppose not, provided I’m a filly and not a bitch.” She turned her back to him once more so he could untie...well...everything that needed untying. All of which would have to be tied the next morning. Again. Women’s clothing was exhausting.
“I’m not good with animals.” He stepped back to stare at his handiwork, and the bits of smooth, curved, probably easy to kiss flesh now visible. He swallowed, willing his mind to produce something clever and impressive to women—well, to this woman—instead of barely coherent with lust. “After Noah, it’s mostly locusts and sheep.”
“Well, then, I should be flattered.” She slipped behind the screen, illuminated by a wall sconce enough that her silhouette, sans skirt, cast a dark shadow. All. Those. Long. Legs. And rounded curves and...
“I believe there’s a talking donkey as well,” she called.
What was she—oh, Balaam and Balak. The only interesting story in Bamidbar—Numbers. She really did have quite the impressive education. One of the advantages of America, formal Jewish education for girls, not just knowledge gleaned from listening to the men.
Not that Amalia couldn’t pick up things that way. People underestimated her. Quite a bit. He tiptoed closer. “So you’d want to be compared to an ass?”
“Not compared, though you seem to be spending a great deal of time holding mine.” He glanced down at the wire half cage still in his hand—the bustle as she called it. She raised a hand above her head. “Nightgown and dressing gown, please.”
Dalliances & Devotion Page 14