Only a few inches of quilt was available, not enough to cover one cheek. Slipping his right arm inside the covers and under her, he tried to scoot her over. All he succeeded in doing was pushing the covers away, so only thin layers of clothing lay between her breasts and his chest.
Well, hell! You're man enough to resist temptation, Buffalo Lachlan. Better you suffer from a permanent bone-on than freeze to death. At least you know you'll not catch your death of cold from it.
Stealthily, so he wouldn't disturb her again, he slipped under the covers. Ah, that's better. Knowing he was playing with fire, he pulled her closer, so her head was pillowed on his shoulder. She signed, wriggled a bit, and draped her arm across his belly. Carefully he pulled it up so it lay across his ribs. I've only got so much resolve.
After a while he found the urgent need was receding, replaced by a warmth of spirit, a sense of comfort he'd not had since he'd left home. When he was a pup, he and his sisters and brothers had slept in heaps in the winter. At least that's what Ma had called the way they'd all piled into one bed and tangled themselves together, sharing a mound of quilts. Sleeping with a woman, even one he was fond of, had never had the same quality of loving closeness that sleeping with his siblings had.
I want her, he acknowledged, aware of a residual tumescence, yet I'm comfortable just holding her. He felt himself drifting off.
No, I need to get up there and see what that filthy bastard did. Clean up his mess so she doesn't have to. They'd need to get an early start tomorrow, to make the most of the short daylight. That meant he needed to see what he could find while she was sleeping.
"Siri," he said softly, "wake up."
"Hnnnh?" She nuzzled his shoulder, bringing his body to full alert.
"I'm going away for a while. You stay here and sleep. I'll lock the door behind me."
"Nej," she murmured, clinging to him. "Do not go."
Gradually he eased himself away from her. When at last he sat on the side of the bed, he kept his hand on her for a while, until she settled down into deep sleep again. "I'll be back," he promised, knowing she didn't hear.
After dressing quickly, he dug out his fancy candle lantern and lit it. The small brass cylinder had a sliding shutter so he could have the barest sliver of light showing. A handy tool for a sneak. Shoeless, he stole up the stairs.
It had to be well past midnight, which meant Carleen was probably back and tucked into her bed. With no door between the two rooms, he was going to have to work silently. Quickly he sorted through the clothing on the floor, kicking aside those that were still wet and slimy. He'd replace them, whether Siri wanted him to or not. She shouldn't have to ever touch those shabby drawers and the chemise, almost transparent from too many washings, again.
Since he didn't know if she'd kept any valuables in her room, he couldn't tell if anything was missing. He refolded the clean petticoats, rolled stockings into pairs. The scent of cinnamon clung to every garment, faint, so elusive he didn't notice it at first. When he picked up her flannel nightgown, soft and fragile from years of wear, he crushed it in his fist. With a mother-in-law rich enough to have a grand house--Siri's words--surely there should have been enough money to clothe one slender woman decently.
He was sorting through the contents of her top dresser drawer when he heard a sound. Pausing, he listened, but it wasn't repeated. Widening the slit in the candle lantern, he bent closer, the better to see the few papers in a sandalwood box. A note from a teacher, christening certificates for two children, Rosel and Rolf. Marriage lines for Sigrid Hansen, spinster, age twenty, and Valter Trogen, bachelor, age twenty-four. He checked the date again on a christening certificate--yes, she'd been six months pregnant when they married.
Did he force her? Or just take advantage of her innocence?
No wonder the mother-in-law had treated her like dirt. She'd probably had great plans for Valter-the-cocksman.
Gently he closed the drawer. Lifting the lantern high, he took one last look around the room. Everything was in order. He'd just--
"Turn around, mister, and keep them hands high. I'm not much of a shot, but you'd be hard to miss at this range."
Slowly he pivoted on one heel. Barefoot, looking virginal and innocent in a long, white nightgown, Carleen stood between him and the stairs. The dueling pistol she held might be an antique, but he wasn't about to see if it would still fire.
Carefully Buff lifted the candle lantern high enough that its light shone on his face. "I'm not a robber, Carleen," he said, keeping his voice low, his words slow and careful. Nothing scared him more than a woman with a gun she didn't know how to shoot.
"Mr. Lachlan? What the devil are you doing here? Where's Siri?"
"Siri's down in my room. Someone broke in here, searched her things. She came to me. I was trying to see what all he took. But I don't have any idea what was here before..." Letting the words trail off, he shrugged, doing his best to look helpless.
"Sure and I'm the Queen of the May." She hesitated, as if unsure of what to do.
"Let's go to my room. You can ask Siri."
With her free hand, Carleen gestured. "Go. But if she ain't there, I'm calling Mr. Welkins." She stepped back so he could pass her.
Given the width of the hallway, Buff could have easily taken the gun from her. But the ensuing racket would have woke the whole house. He went peacefully. All the way down the narrow, steep stairs, a spot in the small of his back tingled, as if anticipating a bullet. He sure hoped she didn't slip and fall.
At his door, Buff halted. "The key's in my pocket," he said.
"Take it out, then. Slow and easy."
Transferring the candle lantern to his other hand, he did so. When he pushed the unlocked door open, he could smell cinnamon, faint but unmistakable. He stepped back so Carleen could enter.
Instead she prodded him with the pistol barrel. "After you, boyo." Once inside, she leaned against the door.
Buff hadn't pulled the curtains on the bed alcove, but it was dark, with only his small candle lantern for light. "There's a lamp on the dresser."
"Light it, then. But no funny moves."
He felt his way across the room, fumbled to light the lamp. When its warm glow filled the room, he said, "She's in the bed."
Carleen stepped closer to the bed, forgetting to keep the pistol pointed at him. Buff didn't remind her. He sat down and watched.
After Carleen shook Siri awake, they spoke in whispers, both of them frequently glancing over at him. Carleen seemed to be scolding Siri, who looked as if she was defending her actions.
Siri's voice rose. "Nej! I did not!" She shook her head violently. "I was afraid and he..."
He didn't hear more because Carleen motioned her to be quiet. He had a hunch he knew what she'd been scolded for.
Too bad, she hadn't deserved the reproach.
Siri dropped her voice to a whisper at Carleen's sharp gesture. "If you will not scold me, I will tell you what happened."
"Okay, but keep it down." Carleen glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Lachlan, who sprawled in the easy chair. "I don't trust him."
"I would trust him with my life," Siri told her." He is a good man."
"Yeah? So why was he tossing your room? Looked to me like he was pawing through your undies when I caught him."
"I think...he must have been putting them away. Oh, Carleen, when I got to my room..." Hearing the tears in her voice, she took a deep breath. "Someone was in my room tonight. Someone ond...evil. He...my drawers...oh, I cannot say...!" Unable to stop the tears, she covered her face with hands that still shook. She took several deep, broken breaths before her voice steadied.
"Mr. Lachlan and I were talking. He will help me find mina barn. We made plans..."
"Talking?" Carleen's tone said how unlikely she found that idea.
"Ja, we were talking. Only talking. Then I went upstairs. I was undressing before I saw..." She gulped back the tears that still sat at the back of her throat. "Min underkläder...så smutsi
ga!"
"Damn it, Siri, you know I don't understand when you talk Swedish!"
"Siri, let me explain to Carleen. You snuggle down there and try not to think about it," Mr. Lachlan said.
"Ah, how can I not?" But she did as she was told. "He will tell you," she said to Carleen. "I cannot."
Resolutely she tried not to hear what Mr. Lachlan said. His voice was a soothing murmur and she relaxed.
A long time later, she felt someone slip into the bed beside her. Before she could more than stiffen, she heard Carleen say, "It's me. He said I shouldn't sleep up there alone. Who knows where the sick bastard is? He might still be in the house."
Gratefully Siri let Carleen snuggle up against her back. Just having someone to hold her was a great comfort.
Chapter Eleven
Buff woke early, stiff from sleeping in the upholstered chair. His pocket watch, seen by the light of a match, told him the time was five-forty. The house would be stirring soon.
He lit a candle. Two heads lay on his pillow, just visible above the covers, one sandy-red, one silver-blonde. Any red-blooded man's fondest dream. Leaning close he said, "Siri? Carleen?" not touching either woman. "Time to wake up."
Carleen snorted and pulled the covers over her face.
Siri went very still. Her eyes opened a slit. Then widened. "Oh, it was not a mardröm then?"
"Not a nightmare," he agreed. "But if you don't want anyone to know where you spent the night, you'd better be getting back to your own room. It's almost six."
"Ja! Carleen! Wake. We must go" She shook the other woman. "Wake! Now!"
Carleen woke slowly. Until she saw Buff. Then she sat up very quickly. "You let us sleep!" she accused.
Buff had to grin. "Yeah, and I wish you'd done the same." He used both hands to cover a wide yawn. "Next time you get the chair."
"Oh! Jag är obetänksam! I did not think...You should have..."
"Later," Buff told her. "You need to get upstairs now."
"He's right, Siri. Let's go!" Now that she was awake, Carleen wasted no time. She pulled the door open, peeked outside. "Come," she whispered. "I don't think there's anybody about."
Siri paused at the doorway and looked back. "Tusen tack," she whispered.
Buff caught her hand, squeezed. "Nine o'clock. The Chinese store."
She nodded and was gone.
* * *
A good thing he had followed. Lachlan seemed in no hurry, as a man would be if he had an appointment with the commandant of an army post. Did he know he was being followed, or was he naturally suspicious?
But where was he going? Jaeger found a deep doorway across the street from the Chinese store where he could conceal himself. Perhaps the man was simply engaged in illicit dealings of some sort, for all his appearance of respectability.
Steam on the inside made the store window opaque. What was Lachlan doing, to be inside so long? Jaeger had almost decided to return to the hotel when his quarry emerged, with a woman.
The maid from the hotel? Yes, it was she. Now why...?
Lachlan led the woman, who was visibly resisting, across to the mercantile. They disappeared inside, and Jaeger forced himself to be patient.
Eventually they reappeared, now both clad in the oiled-canvas garments called, for some incomprehensible reason, slickers. He shrank back into the shadowy doorway, curling into a ball, as if he were a drunk sleeping off a night's carouse.
Once they were well along the street, he rose and followed. They did not stop at the edge of town, but continued along the rough trail toward Upper Astoria.
He turned aside and made his way to the waterfront. There were only two or three possible places they could be going. Why should he plod through the mud when he could follow them in reasonable comfort?
* * *
Rain was falling when Buff walked outdoors the next morning. Siri had insisted they meet at the Chinese store because she didn't want anyone at the hotel to know they were spending the day together. "Others will think I am available," she'd said, when pressed for a reason.
Not while I'm around. But he'd bit off the words before he could speak them. After all, he'd be leaving one of these days, and she wouldn't. No need to give the other men ideas.
She was sitting at the small table in the corner, sipping tea. The jasmine scent of the tea filled the room, reminding him of his aunt, who'd first introduced him to the delicately flavored beverage.
As soon as he entered, she drank the rest of her tea and rose. "I am ready," she said.
"Good. I've got a boat waiting." He'd made the arrangements last night, before he'd gone to the hotel.
She went stock still. "A boat?" Her voice was a hoarse croak, her face stark white. As he watched, she licked her lips once, twice. "You did not say...nej, I do not... I cannot..." Eyes enormous, she looked across toward Mrs. Leong, her expression a desperate plea.
"You not take boat. Walk is easier," the Chinese woman said, nodding rapidly.
"Ja. Ja, walking is more easy. There is no need to pay a boat," Siri said. The hoarseness was still there. Both hands were clenched tightly against her breast, the knuckles white.
Something was going on here that Buff didn't understand. He started to say he didn't have time to walk nine or ten miles through dripping woods. Then he took another look at Siri's face. She's scared stiff. Of water? She's afraid to ride in a boat?
"Mrs. Leong, may I have a cup of tea?" He pulled out the chair across from Siri. "Sit," he told her. "Let's talk about this."
Stiffly she lowered herself into the chair. Her teeth worried her bottom lip.
When tea was steaming in a mug before him, Buff set his elbows on either side of the cup and leaned forward. "You won't ride in a boat? Or you can't? Which? And why?"
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes.
"Siri, talk to me." Reaching across the table, he caught one of her hands. It was trembling. "Why can't we take the boat? If we walk, we'll be all day on the trail."
"Jag blir sjösjuk," she said.
"Seasick? You get seasick?" He laughed in spite of himself. "A fisherman's daughter."
"Ja. I become very sick, so I do not go in boats, not ever." As she tugged her hand free of his grasp, she frowned across at him. "It is not funny. Not at all."
"You're afraid of getting seasick? Why? Generally it doesn't last long."
"I am not afraid."
But she hadn't looked him in the eye when she said it, and her voice sounded...uncertain? "Siri, there's nothing wrong with being a little bit scared of getting seasick. Hell...heck, nobody likes it."
"I am not afraid! Do not plåga...plague me!"
This time there was no uncertainty in her tone. Only anger. It convinced Buff there was something more than seasickness that kept her out of boats. I'll find out what, he decided.
He wasn't sure why it mattered, but he knew it did.
Yesterday Buff had asked about the trail to Daws' Landing. It wound through the woods, a muddy track about twenty feet higher than high tide, following the contour of the land. A crow's flight distance of three miles was probably half again that far by foot. And wet. Great God, it would be wet!
Outside the rain drummed on the wooden walk. Already a rushing, muddy rivulet was cutting a new channel down the middle of the street. Buff's slicker was waterproof, but not watertight. Rain could find its way inside the collar, moisture would wick up the inside, soaking his sleeves. Despite the slicker's long skirt, his britches were already damp, and would be soaked before he'd gone a mile.
She wore a threadbare wool coat, already darkened with moisture about the shoulders and chest.
He looked at her, huddled into her chair. She still worried her lower lip. Taking a deep breath, Buff forced himself to speak softly and gently. "Look, Siri, if you're sca-- if you really don't want to take a boat, we'll walk. But you can't wear that coat."
"I have done it before. It is not so wet under the trees. And it does not take long."
He
considered. The thick evergreen canopy would give some protection, unless the wind came up. Then it would be worse than being in the open, because the moving treetops would quickly drop their moisture loads. "How long did it take you to walk up there?"
More chewing of the lip. "More than an hour. Perhaps two. I do not know for certain."
Well, hell! "Let's go then." He caught her hand and pulled her to her feet. If he was going to half drown, catch his death, and otherwise behave like a damn fool, he might as well get to it.
The mercantile across the street was just opening. Buff took Siri over and guided her inside the door, despite her whispered objections. "The lady needs a slicker," he told the clerk, "and an umbrella."
She hissed at him.
He ignored her. "You got any of those Norwegian sweaters left, the ones made with unwashed wool?" He'd seen a few on the shelf when he was in here last week and had thought at the time how practical they were for a climate like Astoria's.
Shortly he was holding one of the sweaters up to her.
"I have no money," she whispered, pushing it away. "Why are you doing this?"
"Hold still." He stretched out a sleeve, measured it against her arm. "That ought to fit. Now, how about the slicker?"
The clerk pulled one from a pile. "Smallest I got," he said.
"That won't do. She's skinny but she's long. It won't matter if it's a mite big around."
"I do not need a slicker," Siri said, stamping her foot. "I need nothing." She made a grab for her coat, which was lying on the counter.
Buff stopped her by grabbing the back of her collar. "Put this on," he said, holding up the sweater. "It'll keep you a sight warmer than that poor, wet thing."
"Nej!" She tried to jerk free.
"Siri, if you want my help, you're going to cooperate with me. Wear the sweater or--"
"You are not my-- " She glanced at the clerk, whose ears were flapping with curiosity. "Du är inte min man. Jag behöver inte lyda dig!" Her square chin was set and firm; her pale eyes seemed to shoot blue sparks.
The Lost Baroness Page 11