by Susan Wiggs
She told Dylan that she loved him, and heard him answer. She had not known it would be this way. No whispered warnings could have prepared her for the power and beauty of this experience. Turning her head to one side, she glimpsed the flickering fires outside the train window and—
“We’re moving again,” she said suddenly.
“Yes, my love,” he said agreeably, with a suggestive motion of his hips.
“No, I mean we are moving.” Much as she adored clinging to him, she forced herself to sit up, take notice. She drew on her robe and went to look out the window.
Sure enough, the smoky landscape was sliding by, slowly at first but even as she watched, it moved with gathering speed. Dylan pushed himself up beside her, resting his chin upon her shoulder as he looked out at the misted lake.
He got up and walked stark naked to one end of the car. She was amazed by how natural he seemed, walking about in the nude. With an elaborate lack of concern, he went over to the dark oak sideboard and poured two more glasses of champagne. She found that she could not take her eyes off him. He had a physique that captivated her entirely; he was long-limbed and muscular, yet not bulky. He had the body of a gifted athlete, and she wondered if it was a natural fitness or if the very rich followed some sort of regime to ensure physical perfection.
She told herself it was wicked to be staring at him so, even though he was her husband. “Where do you suppose this car is headed? And why?”
He returned to the bed, holding out a glass to her. “I imagine they’re clearing the terminal for the relief trains to get through. Remember, the mayor wired for help last night, so they must be preparing for it. Who knows where we’re headed? I’ve always had good luck with trains.”
It was an odd thing to say, but she couldn’t question him further, because he quite deliberately parted her robe, exposing her to his heated stare. Kathleen tugged her robe shut. She bit her lip, thinking of her family. “I must get back to Chicago,” she said.
“Of course you must.” He angled his head to nip—dear God, he was nipping her again—at her neck. “You’ll need your clothes…and jewels, of course.” He misinterpreted her anxious expression. “Don’t be bashful, darling, Phoebe Palmer told me all about your fortune. You needn’t worry, the fire couldn’t have reached the finishing school.”
How sweet of him to be so concerned about her clothes and jewels. And how he would laugh when he learned she owned two dresses, both homemade, and her only jewel, her da often joked, was the emerald of her eyes. The silk gown she’d worn was all but ruined; at least the borrowed jewels, tucked now into the toes of her shoes, were fine. She would have to return them to Deborah Sinclair as soon as she could. The thought filled her with apprehension.
“What’s wrong?” Dylan asked.
“I was just worried about my friends and family.”
He seemed befuddled. “It must be strange to care about something that much.”
“Why strange?”
“No reason. Look, they’ll be fine. And so will we. You have to trust me on this, love.”
Soothed by his reassurances and by another glass of champagne, Kathleen surrendered her fears. There seemed to be nothing else for it but to cling to Dylan and let him chase away thoughts of tomorrow. Meanwhile, the train kept moving slowly and inexorably away from the city. He began to make love to her again, and she welcomed him, unfolding for him and lying back with a sigh. For the second time, they consummated their unorthodox marriage, and for good measure, they consummated it again…and again. Watching the angry glow of the fire growing ever more distant as the train headed south, Kathleen knew a happiness so sweet that she nearly wept with it.
What had she ever done to deserve such a marvelous man, a man who worshiped and cherished her?
What had she ever done…except lie?
NINE
Dylan lay on his side, propped on one elbow, the bed-sheets bunched around his waist. He gazed down at his sleeping wife and listened to the soothing, lazy sound of the train. She lay like a fallen angel, her fire-colored hair spread out on the pillow, her lips slightly parted and almost imperceptibly swollen from kissing. He had made two very faint marks on her delicate white throat. Her fragile, silken skin bruised so easily beneath the sensual assault of his kisses.
She was such a lady, as finely made as a porcelain doll. She was by far the best one he had ever married, and this union, for once, might even be a legitimate one. What a strange notion, a marriage that could last. He had never before considered being with a woman long enough to watch her change with the years. He wondered what Kate would be like in ten years. Rounder, perhaps, her body shaped by childbearing. Twenty years? Threads of silver in her hair, maybe, and wispy laugh lines by her eyes. Forty? Her beauty was the sort that would endure, for it depended not on artifice or youth, but a handsome bone structure and strong, clear features he would never tire of studying. Her looks, he thought cheerfully, would last as long as her fortune. He was glad he had found her. This was one he wanted to keep.
Of course, he would have some explaining to do if his past ever overtook him, but in the wake of this disaster, what were the chances of that?
As the parlor car chugged slowly past autumn fields blanketed in mist, he began to hope that maybe those chances were growing slimmer by the mile.
Kate stirred, curling against him like a contented cat. Her ardent response in the marriage bed had been a surprise. More than a surprise. A revelation. Society women were trained from infancy to despise sex in every way, shape and form. They were made to truss themselves up in corsets and stays, to hide their bodies even from themselves. It was said no proper lady would ever dare to see herself naked. Yet Kate had discarded bashfulness along with her splendid French gown and welcomed everything he had given her. She had surrendered utterly, and somehow that had added to his pleasure.
Dylan considered himself to be a man of varied tastes and wide experience. He certainly hadn’t expected to find something new and rare and startling with a high-society virgin. But he had. There was no denying it. There was no denying that his physical release had held an edge of sweetness so searing that it took his breath away. No denying that there was something supremely gratifying in simply holding her for hours afterward.
His newest wife was far more than he had bargained for. Far more than he deserved, truth be told. She was definitely a treasure.
No woman had ever affected him this way, not even that female contortionist in Buffalo who had kept him so entertained back in his burlesque days.
With a sigh of contentment, he lay back on the pillows and wondered whose parlor car he had appropriated. It was said George Pullman spent no less than twenty-seven thousand dollars outfitting each of his premier train cars, and that the most important men across America commissioned their own private cars from him. Perhaps this one belonged to Cyrus McCormick or Arthur Sinclair. It was certainly well-appointed enough for men who could afford gaudy ostentation.
The etched glass, ornately carved furniture and lacy appointments were not to Dylan’s taste, but he had only to consider the alternative—his leaky, rotting boat—and he no longer cared if the chicken-footed table started to squawk.
Folding his arms behind his head, he listened to the lazy rotation of the iron wheels and tried to make a plan for the future. First off, they would have to disappear. It was an easy enough feat. He used to do it on a regular basis. Billing himself as Bondo, the Escape Artist, he would pretend to rob audience members of their fine jewelry, watches and gold pieces, only to assure them that he would be locked up like a criminal in a four-sided cage with iron bars, his hands and feet cuffed and chained. Costello used to play the audience volunteer, and when the first gasps of amazement died down, others would come forward. When Dylan was pretty certain of a good haul, he would escape, never to return. The audience was left scratching their heads. You’d think, he mused, they would understand what two simple, tilted mirrors could do, but that was part of being an illusi
onist. People believed what you convinced them to believe.
Smiling, he touched Kate’s silky hair. She was a prime example, she and the swells who moved in Chicago’s exclusive circles. They were all convinced beyond question that he was from an old, wealthy family just a shade less than royal. It was all veneer, polished to a high sheen by constant vigilance and practice. He was so good at it that sometimes he convinced himself he was Dylan Francis Kennedy. In his most private moments, he sometimes felt a small, uncomfortable sensation of disquiet. He had worked so long and hard to become someone else that his true self now lay buried beneath layers of artifice. He had made up so many identities and histories for himself that he was no longer certain which was real and which was illusion.
Sometimes a slipping sense of loss panicked him. At such times, he calmed himself with the reminder that his former self—that lonely, frightened boy abandoned in a train station—was hardly an identity worth preserving.
But still. In the peculiar quiet moments, like now, when there was nothing to do but think, he felt a hollowness that should be filled with the real things of life. Friends and family and the permanence of being anchored to a particular place. A long time ago, he came to the conclusion that he was simply not meant to have those things. He wondered why he still brooded upon them. He should learn to be content with what he had for the time being—a beautiful rich wife, the use of a fine parlor car, a future that might prove to be quite interesting.
What a way to escape Chicago. He ought to stop questioning his good fortune.
Perhaps they could head east to Baltimore, where Kate would introduce him to her family. Fitting in with the wealthy Baltimore clan should be easy enough. For whatever reason, Dylan felt an affinity with these people he had never met, who were so beloved by Kate. He had no idea why, just as he had no idea why he’d felt something come over him in the church during the fire. Flickers of memory, but nothing he could hold on to.
Lulled by the slow sound of the train, he joined his wife in sleep.
* * *
The first thing Dylan did when he awakened was make love to Kate.
He didn’t even really think about it or plan what he was going to do. It was full dark, and she was just…there, warm and pliant in his arms, and it was the most natural thing in the world to kiss her awake, to fit himself between her soft thighs and love her until her cries and sighs crescendoed.
“I think there is something wrong with me,” she whispered afterward into his ear.
“What the devil do you mean by that? You’re perfect, my love. Absolutely perfect.”
“No, I’m afraid I am the worst sort of sinner.”
“Why would you say a foolish thing like that?”
“Well, because I—I like this.”
“Like what?”
She moved her hips. “This. Being with you like this.”
“And how does that make you a sinner?”
“I’m not supposed to like it. You’re a God-fearing man. You know this.”
He fought back loud guffaws of laughter. “Ah, Kate. You’re no sinner. You are a married lady, and some marriages, believe it or not, are meant to be happy. In every way.”
She lay silent as he separated from her and gently held her in his arms. That was when he noticed what he should have noticed the very second he had awakened.
The train was no longer moving.
She really did make him foolish with lust. He had best learn to be more careful. He got out of the berth, smacking his head on the low alcove and gritting his teeth to keep in a curse.
“I’d best see where we are,” he said. There was no light at all in the parlor car. He felt his way to the window and saw an orange glow. Monday’s sunset? Tuesday’s daybreak? The burning city? He couldn’t tell, and the watch he had pickpocketed Sunday night had stopped because he had neglected to wind it. Out the opposite window, the fog-shrouded lake hid its secrets in a vast nothingness.
“Can you see anything?” Kate asked from the bed.
“Just the lake. And some flickering lights along the shore.” Dylan felt ravenously hungry all of a sudden. He lit a lamp and went rummaging, finding a tin of soda biscuits and a jar of honey. When he brought them to the bed, Kate gave a cry of elation so heartfelt it sounded as if he had made love to her all over again.
“I’m starved,” she declared.
In the dark, they made a feast of the biscuits and honey, washing the meal down with the rest of the champagne. It was warm and flat but they drank it anyway, laughing together, spilling crumbs in the bedclothes. When Kate claimed she could not eat another bite, he held a honey-dipped spoon high above her.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, half laughing, half horrified.
He held her pinned to the bed with one hand and watched the amber ribbon of honey spin downward like a spider’s web. It pooled on her stomach, and she gave a little cry of shock and dismay.
“I’m hungry for something sweet,” Dylan whispered, wiggling his eyebrows in exaggerated fashion.
Kate smacked him on the shoulder. For a rich girl, she packed quite a wallop, he thought.
“You’re making a mess entirely,” she said indignantly, in what he was beginning to think of as her bossy voice. It was sharper, brassier than her usual voice, with a curious lilt.
“I promise to clean it up,” he vowed, moving the spoon so that the dribble of honey drew a curlicue on her stomach.
“Stop it. I don’t want to be sticky all night long.”
“You won’t be,” he said easily. “Look, I’ve drawn the shape of a heart.”
She pushed herself up on her elbows. “I don’t see it. You are wicked to the bone, Dylan Kennedy.”
“But I’ve made you a heart. Here, if you can’t see it, I’ll show you.” He put the spoon in the honey jar and set it aside. And then, while she gasped in shock, he traced the shape of the heart with his tongue. He worked slowly and methodically, making certain not a single drop of honey escaped his notice.
“Oh, dear heaven,” she whispered.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured against her silky skin.
“You had better stop this right now.”
“Why? Don’t you like it?”
“It’s not a matter of liking.” She gasped. “I can’t even collect my thoughts when you do that.”
“Then don’t think.” He licked a path from her navel to her breast. “Just lie still and let me get all this honey off you.”
“But I—”
“Sh. I don’t want to spend the night with a sticky wife.”
She gave up protesting when he circled first one breast, then the other, then took each nipple in turn delicately between his teeth. He kissed and licked her where the honey was, and even where it wasn’t. Within a very short time, she gave herself up to him entirely. She opened herself, even her soul to him, and when he sank down into her again, he had the strangest sensation that this was exactly where he belonged.
* * *
At daybreak they ventured outside into a chill, damp autumn day. Enjoying his role as lord of the manor, Dylan spoke with the railroad men, who confirmed that they had stopped at Eden Landing and were clearing the tracks for the relief trains. It took little skill to convince them that he was the owner of the Pullman car. An anxious-looking businessman wearing an ill-fitting suit shaded his eyes and regarded the lake. “There’s a fortune in grain on the barge Elyssa out there,” he said. “And no way to get it to the markets now. What with the wires down and the Board of Trade destroyed, they’ll probably have to dump the entire harvest in the lake.”
“Could you find a fleet of tugs to take it to Milwaukee?” asked Kate.
Dylan looked at her sharply. Each time she opened her mouth, she surprised him. Did they teach her the grain trade in finishing school?
“That would take weeks,” the man said. Lifting and then replacing his battered flat cap, he introduced himself as David Fraser.
“Dylan is a man of business,” Kate s
aid with a discomfiting wifely pride. “Perhaps he could figure out a way to get your grain to market.” She batted her eyes. “Couldn’t you, Dylan?”
“Of course,” he lied. “Perhaps when the emergency’s over, we might come to an agreement.”
“You’d be a godsend, then,” Fraser said. He and Kate fell to talking, of all things, about the price of a bushel of wheat and whether or not the Board of Trade would be able to reopen. Fraser seemed quite confident Dylan would find him a grain contract.
Restless, Dylan wandered off and idly picked up several stones from the ground. With the habit of long practice, he juggled them in a circle. After a few moments, Kate and Fraser noticed him, and he grinned at them through a wreath of spinning stones.
Kate gave a little laugh. “Where on earth did you learn to do that?”
He winked, catching the stones one by one. “Harvard.” Before she could question him further, he said to Mr. Fraser, “Pardon me, sir, but there’s something in your hat.” With a flourish, he reached for it and held it out. The smallest stone from his juggling lay in the crown.
It was an old ruse, but it almost always worked. While the mark stood in confusion, he left his pockets untended. But when Dylan looked into the man’s plain, worried face, he simply handed back the hat. No sense in adding to the poor sod’s troubles.
The engine whistle shrieked, and as the cold evening descended, the few refugees were ordered aboard again. Kate seemed preoccupied, standing at the window and staring out at the lake, broad and endless as the sea.
“Do you find bargeloads of grain that fascinating?” Dylan asked teasingly.
Deadly serious, she turned to him. “I suppose so,” she said, “when they are worth a fortune.”
* * *
Kathleen came awake eyelash by eyelash. She was that sore, that tired. It took long moments of concerted effort to drag one eye open, then the other, and when she finally managed to focus on something, it was her husband’s face.