Silken Dreams

by Bingham, Lisa

  “But no one else knows about my… problem except you.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you see, there’s no way to prove I didn’t do it, until I can find the man who did.”

  “Perhaps once you get into town…” Remembering why she’d come upstairs in the first place, Lettie dropped the bundle of clothing she’d taken from the Beasleys onto the bed beside her, then hurried toward the wardrobe and flung open the door. Swiftly thumbing through her dresses, she chose a black grosgrain skirt and bodice to wear into town, since she would be paying a call on Mrs. Clark.

  “Mama has asked me to go into town for supplies.” She threw a meaningful glance over her shoulder. “She told me I could take Mrs. Magillicuddy, if she wanted to go. Does she want to go?”

  Ethan made a face of masculine discomfort. “Lettie, this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “It’s the only way you’re going to get in and out of town. Mr. Goldsmith told me that they’ve issued a reward for your capture.”

  Ethan grew still. “How much?”

  “One thousand dollars.”

  He swore. “How much time do I have to get dressed?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “That’s more than enough.”

  Lettie laughed. “You have a lot to learn about being a woman, Ethan McGuire.”

  In the end, Lettie dressed first, forcing Ethan to turn his back while she slipped out of her day dress and into the more appropriate suit of mourning. Then she strode toward the clothing she’d placed on the bed.

  “You’re going to have to strip down to your drawers.”

  “I have to what?”

  “Strip to your drawers.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one is going to believe you’re a woman if you have on a pair of men’s trousers beneath your skirts.”

  “Who’s going to know?”

  “Ethan, you’ll be climbing in and out of a buggy all day. The first thing a man watches for in a woman is a glimpse of stocking.”

  Ethan opened his mouth to refute her statement, then closed it again. “Well, maybe not the first.” His eyes took on a heated glow, and he stepped toward her. “That wasn’t the first thing I saw with you.”

  Lettie damned the warmth that flooded her cheeks when she realized she’d first confronted him with her bodice half undone.

  “Nevertheless,” she inserted firmly, holding out a hand to stop his advance, “you will need to strip.”

  “You just want to see me without my clothes.”

  “I’ve seen you without—” Once again she snapped her mouth shut.

  “Not entirely.”

  “Ethan!”

  Ethan only chuckled.

  The sound was music to Lettie’s ears.

  “Strip.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When he didn’t move, she cocked an inquiring eyebrow. “Well?”

  He made a swirling motion of his hand, much as she did every morning. “Turn around.”

  Hurrumphing to herself, Lettie turned, grasping the clothing to her chest and marching toward the bureau.

  “The mirror, Lettie.”

  Feeling another tide of warmth flood her cheeks, Lettie turned and marched toward the window. “Hurry it up, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  From behind, Lettie heard the rustle of clothing and she forced herself not to think about what part of his anatomy he was uncovering with each subtle sound. Each night he had undressed in the dark, and Lettie’s imagination had run wild. The image was so clear and fresh in her mind that she could nearly see the suspenders dropping to each hip. Soon the shirt he wore would slip from wide shoulders to reveal a leanly contoured chest and flat stomach. Then he would unbutton his trousers.

  “Now what?”

  The temptation to turn was nearly unbearable.

  Lettie strode to the bed, keeping her eyes carefully averted from the man in the center of the room, even as she wondered if he’d notice if she took one peek—just a quick one—in the mirror over the bureau.

  Opening the pillowslip she’d used as a sack the night before, Lettie removed a pair of black cotton stockings and a pair of frilly women’s underdrawers, then threw them over her shoulder. “Put these on.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Ethan blurted, “These are women’s!”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not wearing these women’s… things.”

  “They’re underdrawers, Ethan.”

  “Lettie—”

  “Put them on.”

  “They’re… lacy.”

  “Put them on.”

  “Lettie, these are women’s underclothes!”

  “I know, Ethan. There wouldn’t be much point in giving you men’s, would there?”

  “But—”

  “You’re wasting time.”

  “I don’t like this, Lettie. It’s bad enough dressing like a woman, but you didn’t tell me I had to wear… these.”

  “Ethan, just put them on and stop arguing about it.”

  “Lettie—”

  “Put them on.”

  “Damn.”

  She heard the squeak of the bed as he sat on the side, and within moments she heard his muttered, “Now what?”

  Turning, she bit back a snort of amusement when she saw Ethan standing in the middle of the garret, wearing his own drawers and a pair of Alma Beasley’s black cotton stockings and lace-edged underdrawers.

  At the sound of her laughter, Ethan scowled, planting his hands on his hips. “Lettie,” he growled.

  “I’m sorry.” She grasped the corset from the pile of things on the bed and marched toward him.

  Ethan took one look at the contraption and backed away.

  “Oh, no you don’t. It’s bad enough wearing”—he waved to the underdrawers—“but I won’t wear that.”

  “Yes you will, Ethan McGuire. No one is going to believe you’re a woman if you have a thirty-two-inch waist. Now turn around.”

  After much fussing and cajoling, Lettie finally managed to dress Ethan in a corset, a pair of false bosoms, two petticoats, and a bustle pad. Then, before he could complain again that he couldn’t breathe and she had to loosen his corset strings for the umpteenth time, she quickly dropped the skirt over his head and handed him a bodice and a waist-length mantle.

  She returned and gestured for him to sit on the side of the bed. He strode across the room, swearing at the tangling of his skirts, then whirled and sank onto the ticking, swearing again when his brusque motions caused the corset to jab into his ribs.

  Lettie only laughed.

  “Damn, how do you stand this thing?” he muttered, gesturing to the boned corset beneath his borrowed bodice.

  “The only other alternative is flopping around like a two-bit floo—” Lettie clapped a hand to her mouth at her own unguarded words. A wellbred woman did not even discuss the unmentionables she wore beneath her clothing, let alone the effects of going without them.

  Ethan’s eyes blazed and he whipped an arm around her waist and drew her between his wide-spread legs, so that Lettie’s skirts tangled between them. One broad hand rested low on her back, pressing her tightly against him, while the other reached to cup the indentation of her waist just below her ribs.

  “I guess I never thought about it much,” he murmured, staring at his hand as if fascinated by the firm line of her torso. His thumb rubbed against her bodice, discovering the faint ribbing caused by the boning of her corset. “I suppose you’d get used to it after a while.”

  His hand began to move up, and Lettie fought to breathe when his thumb continued its brushing foray, finally coming to rest at the bottom of the gusset that cupped her breast.

  “Still,” he murmured, “I don’t think I’d make a very good woman. I’d rather go without”

  His thumb continued its insistent brushing, back and forth, and of their own volition, Lettie’s hands lifted to rest on his forearms, grasping the firm musculature beneath in
support when her limbs seemed to grow weak.

  “That’s because you’re too lean. There’s no soft flesh to mold with the corset. You’re too hard.…”

  Her words trailed off and she swallowed past the tightness of her throat when Ethan’s thumb lifted to press against the flesh of her breast where it had been pushed above the restriction of her corset. A tingling burst of sensation seemed to shoot through her body, so that she jerked slightly. Her breathing became labored.

  “Ah, Lettie, this is madness.” Ethan sighed, drawing her even closer. “I swore I wouldn’t touch you again,” he mumbled as if to himself.

  She couldn’t speak; she could only nod, staring at him wide-eyed as his gaze became piercing and sweet. Azure-hot.

  “This is dangerous, Lettie girl,” he murmured.

  “I know.”

  “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re too young.”

  At the word young, Lettie tangled her fingers through the hair at the back of his head and tipped his head up.

  “I’m not young,” she insisted, then covered his mouth with her own.

  Their lips met in a hungry melding of mutual desire. Lettie moaned in satisfaction and delight as Ethan pulled her closer, pressing her tightly against him, his arms winding about her waist until she was sure she would be absorbed into his flesh.

  Sighing, her hands slipped beneath his arms and around his shoulders. Her knees bent, and she settled onto one of his thighs.

  “Lettie,” he muttered, breaking away. “We’ve got to stop this.”

  Lettie barely heard him. She was inundated by a flood of hunger. A hunger to taste him, smell him, touch him. Her head dipped to place feverish kisses along the line of his jaw. When his head arched back, her tongue swirled around the shape of his Adam’s apple.

  “Lettie,” he moaned, then reached for her, lifting her chin so that he could kiss her again. A hungry, demanding kiss that left no holds barred.

  Lettie eagerly matched his ardor, quickly following the pattern of his caresses with those of her own, showing him without words that, although she lacked experience, she was eager to learn.

  Ethan groaned and his hand dropped, reaching past her thigh to tug at her skirts until he managed to bunch them at her hips. Then his strong, calloused palm slipped down the worn cotton covering her thigh to cup the back of her knee, lifting her leg so that her hips pressed intimately against his stomach and her thigh brushed against his ribs.

  She moaned at the intimate contact of his hard flesh, damning the skirts that bunched between them in an awkward way. She wanted to feel him.

  The rattling of a doorknob echoed through the room like a gunshot, followed by a muffled “Lettie? I’ve got the basket ready. My lands, what’s keeping you?”

  They drew apart, acknowledging the faint call from the hall below.

  “I’ll be right there, Mama,” Lettie answered, hoping the distance would disguise the strained quality of her voice.

  “Well, be as quick as you can. Though I’ll fix a cold luncheon, we’ll still have supper to prepare, you know.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  When the muffled sound of her mother’s footsteps faded away, Lettie sagged in relief, dropping her head against Ethan’s shoulder.

  His chest shuddered in a jagged breath. His hand lifted to brush back the hair that had come loose from her braid and tangled about her face. Though Lettie fought against the realization, she felt him taking an emotional step back.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She drew back, her hand lifting to cup his cheek. “No. I don’t want to hear that. You’re not sorry.”

  His brow creased and his jaw grew firm.

  “Neither of us is sorry.”

  Then she framed his face in her hands and kissed him with the fervor penned up inside her, a fervor she knew he could stoke into a raging blaze, knowing deep in her heart that her time with this man would be brief.

  And her memories would have to last a lifetime.

  Chapter 14

  A few minutes later, Ethan had dressed completely. While Lettie recombed her hair and pinned it to the back of her head in a swirling knot, Ethan had donned a short wing-backed mantle and buttoned it to his chin, swearing at the added covering in the heat of the day. But neither of them suggested leaving the extra layer behind. Too much depended upon the success of their subterfuge.

  As soon as he’d finished, Lettie forced him to sit on the side of the bed while she carefully pinned the switches to his head. Despite her efforts to appear casual, Lettie’s movements were tender and her hands lingered over each pin, each silky lock of Ethan’s hair. His own hand lifted to rest in the hollow of her back, as if he too sensed the tension, the apprehension. But neither of them voiced their fears. Instead, they spoke of trivial matters.

  Ethan lifted a hand to the plait coiled at the base of Lettie’s neck. “You’ve pinned your hair up.”

  She nodded. “I only wear it down when I’m working around the boardinghouse. It’s become so long and heavy in the last few years that it makes my head ache to wear it up for very long. I’ve thought of cutting it but—”

  “No,” he inserted firmly, lifting a hand to the swirling knot at the back of her head. “Don’t cut it.”

  The memory of the way her hair had hung about them earlier that morning sifted between them like the soft echo of music.

  “We’d better go,” Lettie murmured finally.

  She handed Ethan an old crocheted reticule, then stepped back. When he stood up, she took a deep breath to still the nervousness galloping in her stomach and ran a critical eye over his appearance.

  Since he was completely covered from the tip of his chin to his ankles, there was not much of him to reveal his true gender, save his face. The veiling of his bonnet would cover that last detail while the switches she’d pinned to his head would provide him with just enough of a feminine outline to give credence to his masquerade.

  “Well?” Ethan prompted.

  Lettie frowned in indecision. Below his chin, the wing-back mantle completely covered Ethan’s torso, and although his shoulders strained against the garment, the light corseting gave him enough of a feminine shape to get by. The shirt she’d chosen was simple, and Lettie regretted the fact that it was pleated and not gathered, since Ethan’s hips were too narrow to be fashionable. She’d been forced to use the longest skirt she could find, however, and this one would have to do. Even so, it only reached his ankles, revealing a pair of Ned Abernathy’s old black hightops.

  “The shoes are wrong,” she muttered.

  Ethan grabbed his skirts, lifted them to his knees, and peered down at his feet, revealing hopelessly masculine calves covered in women’s black cotton stockings.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing, compared to your legs.”

  “What’s wrong with my legs?”

  “Just keep them covered, Ethan.”

  He dropped his skirts and lifted his chin, batting his eyes at her in a gesture of coy femininity. “Just what kind of a girl do you think I am, Letitia Grey? I’ll have you know I don’t lift my skirts for anyone who asks.”

  Her lips twitched, but the thought of the possible risks their excursion might incur muted her usual humor. She was beginning to regret ever making her foolish suggestion to Ethan. Now she wished he would remain in the garret, where he would be safe.

  Ethan seemed to read her thoughts because he murmured, “I have to do this, Lettie.”

  His voice held an edge of the fierce determination she’d grown to expect from him.

  She took a breath, held it a moment, then nodded. Once again, her eyes scanned his appearance. Although Ethan did not look completely like a middle-aged woman, he could at least pass inspection, as long as no one caught a really good look at his face.

  “Well?” he asked a second time.

  “You look—”

  “Like an ass.”

  Th
is time her lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. “As a matter of fact…”

  The silence of the garret echoed between them.

  “Ready?” she finally asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be in this getup.”

  She handed him the bonnet and a satchel filled with his own clothes, in case they should meet with an emergency and he should need to change. But one look at his blunt-edged hands had her scurrying toward her bureau again. Retrieving a pair of old gloves she used for gardening, she gave them to Ethan.

  “Here, put these on.”

  He took one look at the dainty-sized gloves and held up his hands. His palms alone were nearly as large as her whole hand. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  Lettie took one look and bit her lip in frustration. “We’ll simply have to buy you some today. Keep your hands hidden until then. They’re a bit too hairy to be a woman’s.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t talk so low.”

  “Yes—” He cleared his throat and raise his voice to a high falsetto. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lettie shook her head. “You don’t make a very good woman, Ethan.”

  He jammed the black bonnet onto the top of his head and stabbed a hatpin into one of the switches to keep it in place. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  With a sweeping gesture, Lettie motioned for him to precede her down the steps. “After you.”

  He’d taken only a few ground-eating steps before she called, “Oh, and Ethan?”

  He turned, and their eyes met.

  “Please try to walk like a woman.” Though her words were light and matter-of-fact, she knew he saw the concern in her eyes.

  “Nothing will happen, Lettie,” he murmured, and in his voice she heard the slightly bitter edge that told her more clearly than words that he’d been in tight spots before and somehow he’d managed to survive. “We’ll slip into town, ask a few questions, then slip back out again.”

  “I hope so,” she whispered.

  He crooked a finger and used it to tilt her chin so that he could offer her a reassuring glance. “Hey, I used to do this kind of thing all the time, remember?”