Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

  Bull groaned and Father Michael set his jaw, but they followed gamely enough. Dylan moved down the row of train cars, trying the doors.

  “What in the name of Saint Dympna’s drawers are you doing?” Father Michael asked as Dylan grasped the rail of one of the cars.

  “Getting us the hell out of here.” He pushed open the door to a passenger car, then grasped Kate by the waist and lifted her up. She squawked a little, in confusion but not in protest. He set her down and braced his hands against the sides of the door. “Let’s go.”

  Bull didn’t have to be told twice. He heaved his bulk aboard the train car and collapsed on a velveteen banquette. After an initial hesitation, Father Michael did the same, sitting across from Bull, who soon started to snore. Taking Kate by the hand, Dylan made a foray into the next car, finding it crammed full of refugees. The door to the car beyond that was locked, but his nimble fingers made short work of the mechanism.

  “It’s a Pullman Palace Car,” he said. “And it’s totally private.” He locked the door behind him.

  Kate gasped in wonder. “We don’t belong here.”

  “Nonsense. On a night like this, it’s every man for himself.”

  Thick Brussels carpeting, heavy velvet drapes, French plate mirrors, black walnut woodwork and oil chandeliers gave the car the look of an elegant parlor. Dylan suspected Kate probably rode in cars like this all the time, but she seemed genuinely enchanted by the etched windows and fringed furnishings, the screened lavatory area and most of all, by the bowl of apples and cherries on a round table, gleaming in the smoky, early morning light.

  “How thoughtful of someone to serve us breakfast,” Dylan said, helping himself to an apple. Kate laughed a little nervously, then fell upon the cherries with an appetite that matched his. They ate in exhausted silence until Kate got up to explore the rest of the car. Dylan gathered up some apples to take to Bull and Father Michael, but when he stood, a sudden lurch nearly made his knees buckle. He hurried to the door and saw, to his amazement, that the Pullman had been coupled to the line heading south. The car occupied by their companions stood still, disappearing into the smoke.

  He and Kate shared a look. “We’ve been separated from them,” she said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Dear God. Will they be all right?”

  “Those two?” Dylan spread his hands. “After tonight, do you doubt it?” He sat beside her on a tufted chaise and took her hand in his. “We’ll find them again, once we figure out what’s happening.” He tried to move on to the next car, but found it locked. The side was stenciled with the rail company’s initials. Looking down, he saw the track rolling past.

  “We can’t leave Chicago,” Kate said urgently.

  “I don’t believe we have a choice. But don’t worry, we’ll come back,” he assured her, wondering if it would be a promise he could keep. They were headed south, very slowly.

  Kate got up and wandered through the car. It was a private vehicle, and it appeared to have been prepared for an excursion. Under the sleeping berth were drawers filled with articles of clothing, and fresh linens hung from a washstand behind a folding screen. “Oh,” she said, a single syllable that made him think she had seen God. She lifted a thick china ewer. “There’s fresh water.”

  He heard splashing sounds from behind the screen, and smiled. She was such a lady, humming as she scrubbed away the ashes and cinders of her ordeal. He did some more exploring, opening cupboards and storage benches to see what else he could discover. In a bank of built-in cupboards, he found two suitcases filled with more clothing. He tossed some things over the side of the screen.

  “Here, you should put dry clothes on so you don’t catch cold.”

  “But this doesn’t belong to me.”

  “Love, do you really think that matters?”

  She gave a small, nervous laugh. More splashing sounds and then more humming drifted through the room. He craned his neck, trying to see what she’d done with her jewels, knowing this was not the time to ask her about them.

  When she emerged from behind the screen, a silly, beautiful smile lit her face. She wore a long white gown—a peignoir, he thought it might be called—and had managed to put some semblance of order to her bright hair.

  “I feel much better now,” she said.

  “You’ll feel even better after this.”

  “After what?”

  He held up a green glass bottle he had found in a cupboard, then went over to a pocket door and slid it aside. Turning, he gave her his most charming smile, one eyebrow lifted. “My dear,” he said, “champagne…and our marriage bed.”

  EIGHT

  A sound escaped Kathleen—not quite a laugh, but not quite an offended huff, either. “I do admire you,” she admitted, “for being able to joke after a night like we’ve had.”

  She watched, fascinated, as a slow, honeyed smile slid across Dylan’s lips. It was like watching the sun rise—dazzling, mesmerizing. She tore her gaze away and went to the window. The slow motion of the train had ceased, and they seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere. Darkness haunted the edges of dawn, adding an atmosphere of deep intimacy. Dylan didn’t speak, but selected a pair of glasses that hung by their stems in a cupboard. With the flourish of a skilled sommelier, he uncorked the champagne. The popping sound made her jump, and her heart beat even faster.

  He filled the two glasses and crossed the room, holding one out. “Who says,” he asked softly, “that I’m joking?”

  The glass felt heavy, its cut facets sharp in her hand, and she knew it was real crystal, probably from Ireland. But not everything from Ireland was for the very rich, she thought wildly.

  “Of course you’re joking. We can’t possibly—”

  He interrupted her by closing his hand over hers and putting the glass to her lips. She was forced to choose between drinking, or dribbling champagne down the front of the finest embroidered peignoir she had ever worn.

  She drank. Though barely chilled, the champagne tasted delicious. She had only sampled it a time or two before, enough to know she adored the taste. He held the glass while she took a deep swallow and closed her eyes.

  “Much better,” he said in that same soft, cultured voice. “You like champagne, don’t you?”

  “It is like drinking a magical potion,” she whispered, and before she could open her eyes, he put his lips where the crystal glass had been.

  His light, evocative kiss sipped the droplets of champagne from her mouth. “I agree,” he said.

  A powerful warmth raced through her, as if she had drunk the whole bottle instead of just one gulp. Shocking heat settled in her most secret places, and she felt it start—exactly the sort of blush he had teased her about…was it only last night? She prayed he would not notice. She would die of embarrassment if he noticed.

  Resting his hands on her shoulders, he stood back and examined her in the strange light, a mingling of smoke-filtered morning and firelight from the burning city. “Ah, Kate, you’re doing it,” he said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Blushing with your whole body, just as I’d imagined.”

  Damn him. He had noticed. But she didn’t want to die. She wanted to be rid of the gown and robe, wanted to feel their skin touching, as their lips had done. “We…can’t,” she forced out.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Do…what I think you want to do.” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with a man she barely knew. A man who happened to be her husband.

  “You want it, too,” he said gently, almost as if he pitied her. “You want me to make love to you. There’s no shame in that.” His finger traced the curve of her lip. “I’ll do a good job, Kate, I promise you that.”

  Not for a single second did she doubt him. She felt herself melting into nothingness, no strength or backbone to stand on her own. Reaching back, she clutched a brass rail for support and searched herself to find even the tiniest shred of willpower. No. Her mouth formed the word,
but her voice deserted her. She cleared her throat, tasting the fire she had survived. “No,” she said again, this time audibly.

  He didn’t seem in the least discouraged. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  “Sweetheart, you’re my wife. Surely you’ve not forgotten that we were married last night.”

  She started to melt again. She would never forget the most magical night ever, when a real-life prince had made her his bride. “I could not possibly forget that,” she admitted.

  “So?” He let his hands slip down her arms. Almost by accident, his knuckles grazed her breasts. “What is the trouble? I realize it was a bit unorthodox, but that only makes this more special.”

  She gripped the railing harder. “We didn’t expect to survive last night.”

  “But we did. Don’t you see, Kate? It was a gift, and we would be making a mockery of that gift if we didn’t celebrate our miraculous deliverance in the most elemental and life-affirming way possible.”

  Oh, he was good. Persuasive. And achingly sincere. Her grip on the brass rail slackened somewhat, and she had to remind herself to hang on. “We mustn’t,” she whispered, sounding weak and ineffectual in the face of his silky persuasion. “We married in haste, assuming we would die, and there were no, er, contingency plans for what would happen if we lived. No…provisions.”

  “I have a confession to make.” He toyed with a ringlet of her hair, seemingly fascinated by the way the ruby lock curled around his finger. “From the moment I saw you, I was making plans and provisions.”

  “You were?”

  “I was. You nearly broke my heart, running off like that, without saying goodbye.”

  “That was because—” Tell him. Just say it. Oh, she wanted to. She wanted to confess that she was no refined heiress from Baltimore, but a lowly maid whose parents still spoke in the brogue of their native Ireland.

  He was a kind man, she told herself. More than kind. He was handsome and brave and brilliant, and so perfect she wanted to sink down and weep at his feet, begging forgiveness for having deceived him.

  “Because what, Kate?” he asked tenderly, arranging the lock of hair on her shoulder with the care of a museum curator.

  Her mouth went dry. Her stare was riveted by his extraordinary eyes, eyes so blue they resembled mirrors, reflecting her image back at her. What she saw looking back was herself, helplessly in love with him.

  “I…forgot what I was going to say.”

  She had lied to him so much this night that it felt strange, telling him the truth. But it was absolute gospel that she had forgotten what she wanted to confess. What she wanted…was her wedding night.

  Never mind that it was aboard a strange train car where they clearly didn’t belong. Never mind that the dawn was coming on. Never mind that several miles to the north, the city still burned out of control. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that Kathleen O’Leary had discovered a way to make all her dreams come true.

  She made no conscious choice, but let her heart decide. Dylan Kennedy claimed he adored her. She knew she loved him. They would consummate their marriage, and it would be such a mystical, transporting experience that her small white lie would cease to matter. When she finally told him the truth, he would be so deeply in love with her, so inexorably joined to her, that her deception would cease to matter.

  “Then don’t say anything at all,” he whispered in reply, and pulled her into his arms.

  She surrendered her grip on the brass rail, needing nothing but Dylan now that she knew what she wanted. Still melting and helpless, she clung to him, aware of the smoke-infused state of his clothing. The reminder of their ordeal only made her more eager to fulfill the promise they had made at the courthouse. That they had sworn it before a priest, a judge and the mayor only increased the weight of the pledge. That a man had died after witnessing the union only underscored the solemnity of their vows.

  The entire universe, she thought, when she was still able to think, had lined up to enable them to be together in this way. It was fate. Her own dear gran would say so. Fate had brought her and Dylan together, and no small, insignificant mortal such as herself had the right to deny it.

  He asked nothing of her, and he gave everything. With hands so gentle she barely felt his touch, he slipped the peignoir off her shoulders and down her arms. Sliding his fingers beneath the thin straps of her gown, he leaned down to kiss her. Just before his mouth touched hers, he said, “I want to see you, Kate. I want to see you blush.”

  “Yes.” She breathed the word on an exhalation of surrender. She was glad she’d discarded her bloomers behind the screen. Seeing her much mended homespuns might cause him to ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

  With slow, tender movements he brushed the straps aside until there was nothing left to hold the gown on. The sheer fabric slid like a caress down the length of her body, unimpeded by shift or bloomers. She felt as wicked as a sinner, and twice as hot.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured, stepping back so that he wasn’t touching her at all. “Beautiful,” he said again.

  And despite the sinful pose and the blush and everything else, she felt as beautiful as he claimed she was. He had the uncanny talent of making love to her with his eyes alone, nothing more. He wasn’t even touching her, yet she felt the heat of his gaze skim over her breasts, belly, hips, legs. It was wonderful and frustrating and confusing, and she stood waiting, almost faint from wanting him.

  “Let me take you to bed,” he whispered. He took her hand in a curiously formal manner, lifting it and leading her to the draped alcove bed. The Pullman car was a pure wonder, with its lush opulence and the way everything fit so perfectly in its place. The sleeping berth was made up with a feather bed and linens as fine as anything in the Sinclair mansion. The clean, sharp scent of lavender wafted up as he lifted the covers and gently pressed her down. She went willingly, reclining on the cloudlike softness.

  He bent and kissed her. “Wait for me, love,” he said.

  His eyes never left her as he kicked off his shoes and peeled off his waistcoat and shirt. He had a fine broad chest and arms banded by muscles—which surprised her. She had expected the slender physique of a man of leisure. An involuntary gasp escaped her. She felt so wretchedly empty that she nearly sobbed, holding her arms out to him. He smiled. She didn’t understand the sympathy that softened the edges of that smile, but it didn’t matter. He was her prince, her dream come true.

  He lifted the covers and lay down beside her, the comfortable mattress sighing beneath his weight. Holding himself propped on one elbow, he lowered his head to kiss her mouth. At the same time, he moved his free hand over her in a leisurely motion. He gave no particular attention to her most sensitive places, but seemed to encounter them almost by accident. It was maddening, wonderful and frustrating. She kept moving and lifting herself toward him, wanting more and more of him.

  He made her shameless with need. She could no more govern her desire than she could control the moon or the stars, so she made no attempt to pretend she didn’t want him. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him with ravenous hunger, even daring to push her tongue against his lips, slipping it past them, as he had done to her.

  He stopped kissing her for a moment. She froze, fearing she had done something unforgivably terrible. But before she could stammer out an apology, he smiled that magical smile and said, “You’re a temptress, Katie Kennedy. You know how to make me wild for you.”

  From his tone, she deduced that this was a good thing, so she went back to kissing him. Being a temptress was even more fun than being an heiress, she discovered. She reveled in the complete freedom of running her hands over his bare shoulders and down to his hips, feeling the contours of him, the silky hard shape of him. He whispered things in her ear, things that made her more wild than he. Though she didn’t understand everything he said, enlightenment came with the movements of his hands and mouth. He would whisper something and then touch
her in a certain way, so that she understood the act he was describing.

  There were kisses that made her burn, kisses that nipped and marked her as his and his alone. There were caresses that branded her with the heat of his passion, and caresses that made her cry out and lift herself toward him, a shameless offering, a plea.

  This, she thought, floating in a crimson haze, this was what she had been born for. Yet until she had met Dylan, she had not even known.

  He pressed apart her legs and put himself there, his muscular arms making a sturdy frame around her. She felt a stinging pressure, but rather than resisting, she rose toward it, welcoming the sensation. The moment of surrender had been discussed at exhaustive length, in awed whispers, by the ladies of Miss Boylan’s. But when Dylan came to her, she knew the dormitory discussions were wrong. It was assumed to be painful, but Dylan made her understand why the term deflowering had been invented. With a sure but delicate touch he plucked away apprehension and inhibition. He made it seem the most natural thing in the world to kiss her in unexpected places, to touch her in ways she had never even imagined. She unfurled her entire self to him like a flower to the summer sun, entrusting him with her body, her heart, her life.

  She was unprepared for the power of love’s pleasures. His lovely intimate stroking and the motion of his body joining with hers transported her to a place of stars and perfumed magic. She heard herself cry out, and then Dylan kissed her, absorbing the ripples of her pleasure and joining their mouths as deeply as their bodies.