“If you say so.” He turned away for an instant, whipped back to catch her in the act. A smile tugged at his mouth. “No problems, huh?”
“There was something in that hay,” she admitted, thoroughly disgruntled. “I don’t know what—” She stopped as his smile broke free. “You knew!” she accused him.
“Suspected,” he corrected. “Just look at that stuff. Be more surprising if there weren’t a few beasties crawling around in there.”
“No wonder you surrendered it so easily.” She gave up and scratched her forearm in earnest. She glowered at him, two seconds of fierceness before her expression smoothed again. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I’ve always been of the opinion that cheating gets its own reward.”
She froze in mid-scratch. “Cheating?” she asked, wary, composed. “I didn’t cheat.”
“Two aces tucked beneath your thighs?” He shook his head sadly. “Not subtle enough, Kate.”
“You knew?”
“Your distraction was most entertaining, I’ll admit.” He grinned broadly. “You can practice on me anytime.”
“Thank you ever so much for the offer.”
“You underestimated me.”
“Terribly easy to do, I’m afraid.”
“And always a mistake.”
She arched, twisting one arm behind her back in an attempt to get at a spot between her shoulder blades. “If you’re waiting for me to apologize, we’ll be here all day.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did.”
“Excuse me?”
“First hint I’ve had this whole time that you might be worth dragging along. If you’re willing to cheat to win—not to mention exploit certain natural assets—well, you might present a tactical advantage after all.”
“Darn it!” She spun, presenting him with her back. “Scratch. Please.”
She stood still before him, waiting. The nape of her neck was bare. Fine tendrils of gold trailed down. He drew his nails slowly down her back and she arched into his touch.
“There’s just one thing I must know.” He leaned forward, closer than he should have, until the scent of her clouded his brain. “Just how far would you go?”
She sucked in a quick breath. “I imagine you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”
“Oh, I’ll see.”
The scratch veered dangerously close to a caress. Her back was firm, lithe, a sinuous line. And if he didn’t stop touching her right that second, he never would.
“Shouldn’t we be going?” she asked.
“Going?” he murmured. “Oh yes. Going.” He dropped his hand and started for the door. “I’ll just go clean up while you pack, and then we’ll get on our way.”
“I am packed.”
He wheeled around to face her. “Uh-uh. One bag. I don’t care what you put in it, but you’d better choose carefully, because that’s all you’re getting.”
It wasn’t fair, Kate thought. Not one bit. There he was, just rolled out of bed, his eyes still foggy with sleep, his posture relaxed. His hair was rumpled, standing up in all directions. A thick, prickly growth of beard studded his chin. His clothes were in worse shape than his hair. And yet he looked better than she’d ever seen him, completely male, totally appealing—and he’d looked awfully good before.
If he’d seen her the instant she’d woken up, he would have burst out laughing—if he hadn’t run shrieking from the shed. It had taken her a good half hour of repair before she’d dared to rouse him, and it was a barely passable effort at that. She hadn’t done badly, considering the limited conditions, but it would have been immensely satisfying to see him stunned into silence.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
“One bag.”
“There you go again.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“One.” He crossed his arms over his chest, as implacable as a palace guard.
“I realize your rudeness is deeply ingrained, but I really will not tolerate interruptions,” she snapped. “You seem to be overly fond of the roles you’ve cast us in. That is all well and good in front of Hobson, but I am most certainly not your assistant and I have no reservations about reminding you of that fact.”
“I am well aware you’re not my assistant. Any assistant I hired would have enough sense to know that she couldn’t drag half of Wannamaker’s along.”
She continued as if he hadn’t said a thing. If he could interrupt, she could ignore. “I have compromised in this instance already. I will consider you, in light of your experience in such matters, an equal partner despite it being my money and my invitation. You simply must listen when I say one bag is simply and utterly insufficient for my needs.”
“Then change your needs.”
“Oh, come now. You cannot convince me that you would ever undertake an adventure with inadequate supplies. I have brought only the necessities, I assure you.”
He flicked a glance toward the trunk she had brought in the previous night and the two packs stacked neatly on top of it. “It is as foolish to be weighed down with frivolities as it is to be undersupplied, and we are hardly entering the Sahara tomorrow. If the time comes that we need to buy more, so be it. We can choose specifically for the environment and terrain we encounter.”
“Why buy again what we might already have?”
“Kate.” He sauntered toward her, deliberate steps, as though they had all the time in the world. She would not shrink, darn it, would not step back, even though he stood altogether too close.
He pointed at her then himself before he held up two fingers. “Two people,” he said, slowly and clearly. “One horse. Just how many bags do you think we can bring along?”
“You do not need to address me as if I were mentally deficient.”
He grinned widely and let the implication rest.
“We’ll get another horse,” she suggested. “One can’t carry us both for long in any case. Perhaps even a wagon.”
“Can you afford that?”
She considered her small hoard, pondering all the myriad of expenses likely to arise along the way. Certainly Count Nobile and the baron would not be constrained by their budget.
Ridiculously, horrifyingly, she felt the burn of tears and the thought of abandoning all her trunks.
They were only things. But she’d lost so many things already.
“Perhaps,” she said, carefully keeping her eyes turned away from him.
“All right,” he ground out. But just as she thought he might be giving in, he stomped over to her trunk and yanked open the lid. “Let’s see what you consider so essential that you’ll jeopardize the whole damn venture for it, all right?”
“Now wait a minute!” She scurried over, half offended, half grateful. He was ever so much easier to deal with when he was acting the simple, block-headed male. And she functioned much better angry than sad. “That’s private!”
“Private.” He tossed her one quick, heated glance that implied so many things she could only be grateful it lasted a bare second. Any longer would have had her knees giving out beneath her. “Privacy is going to be darn hard to come by when we’re traveling, Kate, and you’d best get used to that right now.”
Oh, now there was something to think about. Too much to think about, guaranteed to disturb her sleep even more than whatever little creatures had lurked in that nasty pile of hay.
He reached into the trunk, grabbed a purple silken bag, and held it aloft like a gladiator displaying his opponent’s head. Glass clinked.
“Would you be careful!”
“Why?” He lowered it and tugged open the gold cord. “What is this stuff?” He spilled a handful out into his palm, tiny glass pots that glittered like gems. He poked at them suspiciously. “There must be dozens.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are no more than fifteen or sixteen.” In this particular bag.
He lifted one to his nose and sniffed as if he suspected ammonia. His brows went up and h
e inhaled more deeply this time. “No wonder you always smell so good.”
She tried very hard to ignore his comment, pushing it back behind more pressing concerns. But it was there just the same, a warm, slow glow—he noticed my scent and he liked it.
“And the rest?” He peered into the depths of the bag.
She sighed, crossed over to him, and began to lecture like a reluctant teacher addressing a hopeless pupil. “That one, there, that’s eye cream.” She nudged a silver-washed pot. “That’s excellent in a dry climate for your elbows and your heels. And that one, there, that’s simply a colored powder.”
“This one?” He prodded a midnight lacquered one with his thumb.
“Eye cream.”
“Thought the other one was eye cream.”
“That’s for daytime use. This one’s for night.”
“Dear Lord, Kate, it’s more complicated than ‘change futures.’” He dumped the whole mess back into the bag. “What good is any of it?”
“What do you mean, what good is any of it?” she asked, hands on her hips, thoroughly offended
“Don’t look at me like that, Kate. You cannot for one instant believe I implied you were anything less than the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen.”
She’d received thousands of compliments in her day. Maybe more, trussed up in pretty words and poetry worthy of the bard. None had ever left her open-mouthed, unable to summon a polite reply.
“I simply meant that, well, there is such a thing as gilding a lily. And truly, who exactly are you trying to impress? Nobody knows who you really are. That leaves only me.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” she said darkly. “But a woman never knows…”
He shook his head. “You can’t possibly need all of them.”
She didn’t even bother to try and charm him into it, merely pressed her lips together in a mutinous line. After a moment, he shrugged and let the bag drop, leaving her to dive for it, snagging the cord the instant before it hit ground.
She straightened, ready for battle, to find him already head down, burrowing in the trunk again.
“Shawls.” He came up bearing four, beautifully wrapped in thin, crinkly paper, the top two peaking out—gossamer silk, the color of fine pearls; and the other, fuzzy blue wool that nearly matched her eyes. “All right, then. Why four?”
“Unpredictable weather?” she suggested helpfully.
He snorted and tossed them away.
Things flew from her trunk faster than she could protest, catalogued and dismissed in an instant. Four pairs of fine leather gloves, beautiful spangled handbags, slippers worked with silver threads.
“Stop!”
He paid her no mind but just unearthed a hatbox wrapped in lavender-flowered paper.
“Wait!”
He ripped off the cover. Violet feathers sprang free, a froth of ostrich feathers as thick as a hedge. “Good God, Kate, just how many birds were sacrificed for this monstrosity?”
“It was their honor to serve,” she snapped at him.
He snorted and threw it over his shoulder, the hat flying out of its box, feathers fluttering behind like a tail. She dashed for it too late and watched mournfully as the hat, acclaimed last spring as the most fashionable ever created by Philadelphia’s best milliner, flopped to the ground like a slaughtered pheasant.
She whirled on Jim, ready for battle, to find him standing, stock still, big rough hands holding a fistful of gauzy, ice blue silk.
He pinched a corner between his forefinger and thumb, as delicately as if it were a glass snowflake. He released his other fist and the entire garment spilled out, a slide of filmy silk and fine lace. She felt her cheeks heat. It was as wanton a thing as Kate owned, created by a French dressmaker the last time she’d replenished her wardrobe but never worn. As if she’d wear such a thing to bed with the doctor! The thought had been absurd, but she’d been unable to explain when the couturier had pressed the negligee on her.
She should have gotten rid of it a long time ago. It meant nothing to her, was utterly useless to anyone but a bride bent on encouragement or a courtesan intent on conquest. Yet it was so pretty. The one time she’d tried it on, the silk had whispered over her skin like a fantasy, then she burrowed it away in her drawer, one more wicked secret to add to the only other one she owned.
And now the other one stood right in front of her.
The fabric was thin as smoke. Kate could see the outline of Jim’s hand behind the fabric nearly as clearly as if there were no cloth at all. She saw him brush one hand down the length of it, slowly as if he savored each inch, as if it were a woman’s skin he touched instead of merely fabric meant to enhance it. He swallowed hard.
Then he looked up and met her gaze. He flushed, cheeks going bright as a schoolboy caught lurking around the girls’ privy, his fist wadding up the fabric as if to hide how carefully he’d held it before.
“I—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Here.” He thrust the negligee at her as if he couldn’t wait to rid himself of it. She snatched it away and tucked her hands behind her back—foolishly late, but she couldn’t help herself.
“One pack,” he told her, turning abruptly. “As long as you keep it down to one, I’ll let you decide what goes in it.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“Don’t you forget it,” he said, an automatic rejoinder but without his usual relish for the byplay. He strode toward the door, head bent, intent upon escape.
The fabric floated over her hands, a gossamer touch, and she shivered, remembering the look on his face. Her only solace was that he was clearly as affected as she.
“Jim?” she called after him.
He paused, one hand on the doorframe.
She waited for him to turn, and when he didn’t, tried again: “Jim?”
He flinched, lifted his head so he could—just barely—be said to be looking at her.
Casually, she made a gesture, waving the flutter of shameless fabric in the air like a red flag before a bull. “Two bags,” she said.
His eyes flashed, then darkened with heat. For good measure she lifted the gown and rubbed the fabric against her cheek. “I’m going to miss this.” His jaw dropped a full inch lower. “Two bags,” she repeated.
“Two bags,” he agreed, and lunged through the door.
Chapter 8
MY FORMERLY FAVORITE SISTERS. STOP. I’M HAVING AN ADVENTURE, JUST AS YOU SUGGESTED. STOP. HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW. STOP. I’M NOT. STOP. LOVE, KATE. STOP.
Two and a half days later, Kate’s horse trudged along a road hugging the north coast of Massachusetts while Kate did the same thing she’d done every minute of the day since they’d quit that little shack: marveling that she had ever, for one single second, considered this foolishness a good idea.
Only a mile or so down the road that first morning they’d stopped at a small farmhouse. Jim left her stewing in the yard—having given in on the “two bags” issue, he’d made it clear in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t surrendering on this one—while he went in to negotiate.
He’d refused to tell her what he’d said. But somehow, without ever dipping into her purse, he’d managed to procure not only a healthy chunk of good yellow cheese and a nice loaf of bread for their breakfast but also a plodding little mare. She wasn’t half the horse that Chief was, but it was far better than having him walking while she rode. And having him ride with her—well, that wouldn’t bear thinking about. Except she did, too often, and in far too lurid detail.
And so they rode, until Kate’s legs cramped and her bum complained. They caught meals where they could and slept in places that made that decrepit shed of the first night seem like the Rose Springs Hotel. And Kate cursed the damn fool idea that had prodded her into this in the first place.
Okay, so she’d had no place to go, nothing to do. The sisters she’d spent most of her life raising were settled, her husband dead. She’d negotiated the squabbles between her stepchildren over the estate to th
e best of her abilities, given that, despite her hopes and persistent efforts, they’d never regarded her as more than an interloper.
Nobody needed her anymore. Her sisters had told her to do something for herself, to take the risk she’d never taken, but it was hard to do something for oneself if one didn’t have the means to pay for it. The doctor’s invitation to this fiasco had fallen into her lap at what she now considered a despicably weak moment.
They’d pushed harder today, past the time they would have normally stopped. The fading sun sent deep shadows snaking across the road. The air held the briny tang of the ocean—they’d glimpsed it twice in the last hour, when the road dipped tight to the coast before pushing back into the woods—and she could hear the crash of the waves muffled through trees. Sometimes louder, sometimes softer, ever present.
They rounded a curve and there it was, a massive, horror-tale castle awkwardly perched on a rocky bluff as if it knew it had never been intended for this place. The warm, buff stone clashed with the cooler tones of the gray granite beneath. The walls were bare, sharp-cornered, as if no native vines could find purchase there.
Though it had stood empty only ten years, after the shipping magnate had been finally carted away to the sanitarium for good, it looked like it had been abandoned a century ago. Most of the windows were gone; someone had bothered to board up only a few. One pane of diamond-shaped glass remained intact, high on the lone tower, glinting gold in the lowering sun.
Brush choked the lawn, hawthorn and brambles creeping in from the surrounding forest. It soon became easier to dismount, tie their horses, and pick their way across on foot.
“A moat.” He chuckled without amusement. “Why do Americans think there always has to be a moat?”
“Because we never do anything halfway, of course.”
They smelled it before they reached it, the fetid, rank odor of unmoving water and the things that had died in it. It had to be a good thirty feet wide. The depth was harder to judge. A good ten feet of slick, algae-clotted wall sheered down from the edge until it met the green surface, so thick with scum that it looked as if one might walk right across.
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