A Wedding Story

by Susan Kay Law

  He squeezed her closer, driving the breath from her lungs, as if he needed something to hang on to. So be it. Who needed to breathe?

  “Damn it, I told him that stretch of the ice field didn’t look safe. There could have been pockets anywhere. We were going to move slowly, not take any chances. He just couldn’t wait to prove me wrong.”

  His voice shook. So slight, she doubted anyone but she would have noticed it.

  “Jim? Why keep it a secret?”

  He rubbed his chin across the crown of her head. “What good would it do? To have his family know that he’d not stopped for one minute to think of them and what would happen to them if he wasn’t careful?”

  And if the world believed Jim at fault, so be it, Kate thought. Oh, it would be so much easier if she didn’t know he had this in him. It tugged at her emotions, making things far more complicated than she’d planned on. She knew the confines of this affair, and woe to her heart if it tried to ignore the boundaries.

  “Jim?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your money, the expedition funding, the book profits…you gave it to his family, didn’t you?”

  The time it took for him to answer told her more than he did. “We were partners. He’d earned it.”

  She tightened her arms around him.

  “Don’t make too much of it,” he warned her. “I should have tried harder to stop him. I knew what he was like, and I let it happen anyway. It was stupid of me.”

  She turned her head so that she could press her open mouth against him, the abrasion of his shirt’s fabric against her lips, the heat of him beneath, the thump of his heart vibrating against her mouth.

  “There were children, Kate.”

  “Hmm.” She rubbed her nose against him, breathing deeply, and then rose to her toes to taste his neck. He inhaled sharply.

  “Kate.”

  She loved the way he said her name, as if she’d driven it out of him. As if he was so filled up with her he couldn’t hold it in. “Yes?” she murmured against his skin.

  “Let’s—” He grabbed her by the upper arms and thrust her away from him.

  “What—” He pressed one finger to her mouth, shushing her, while he narrowed his eyes, staring over her shoulder.

  She twisted but saw nothing except the trompe l’oeil windows and the lush folds of satin. And then he shoved her aside and pounced, yanking aside one of the drapes and dragging out a small figure swathed in white.

  The Amir’s son struggled against Jim’s hold. His robes tangled around him, muting his efforts, but he twisted and turned, his booted foot shooting out, aiming for Jim’s shins. Finally Jim simply lifted him up and dropped him into the nearest chair.

  The boy kicked at the shroud of his robes, arms flapping, and made a move as if he meant to spring.

  “I wouldn’t,” Jim advised him. “I’m bigger than you, and I’m faster than you, and even if by some miracle you managed to get past me, I’d find you. So if you’re not prepared to bail overboard to get away from me, don’t even bother.”

  The boy hunched over in the chair, the loose folds of his headgear hiding his face. Even under the enveloping robes, his shoulders were narrow. He looked small, and very young.

  “Jim,” Kate said, “he probably doesn’t understand a word you say.”

  “Oh, I think he understands me just fine.” Quick as a cobra strike, Jim snatched the robes back, baring the boy’s head.

  Thick chestnut brown hair, damp with sweat, lay smooth against his head where the robes had pressed it. He had the angular look of a boy who’d shot up too fast and not quite grown into his bones yet, long forehead and chin, cheekbones a hard slash. Eyes that, out of the shadows, now appeared shades lighter peered out from beneath thick brows set too low.

  “Who are you?” Jim demanded.

  The boy tried to summon a scowl and managed only to appear sulky. And more than a little scared.

  Jim gave him three seconds. And then he reached out, grabbed fistfuls of robe at his neck, and hauled him out of the chair.

  His feet, clad in black lace-up boots, so worn the leather was nearly white across the toes, the heels ground thin as a dime, dangled two inches from the floor. Not, Kate decided, the typical footwear of an Amir’s son.

  “Who are you?”

  The boy tried to hold his gaze and failed miserably. He hung limply in Jim’s grasp, his toes barely grazing the ground.

  “You heard what I did to the major, didn’t you?”

  The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes going big as dinner plates. “That’d be murder, way out here.”

  “Yes, it would,” Jim agreed mildly. “Your English is excellent, by the way.”

  “Now stop that.” Kate tugged at Jim’s biceps, rock-solid, holding the boy easily. “You’re scaring him.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Oh, just put the child down. For now, at least.”

  Jim dropped him back into the chair. Kate placed herself in front of him, giving him a warning look over her shoulder, and addressed their reluctant captive. “Now, then.”

  The boy peeked at her from underneath his brows. He slumped back into his chair, looking more relaxed. “I’m not a boy.”

  “My apologies. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Kate merely lifted one brow and waited.

  “Seventeen.”

  Kate beamed approvingly. His eyes glazed and red suffused his lean cheeks.

  “Careful, Kate. Cooperative is one thing, but a full dose of you might strike him dumb.”

  “Oh, hush,” she said over her shoulder before addressing the young man again. “While we’re on a roll—what’s your name?”

  “I—” He pressed his lips together and shook his head unhappily.

  Behind her, she felt Jim take a forward step. She put one hand behind her back and flapped her hand at him to get him to stay in place. Threatening the young man was only going to get his back up. She had much more efficient ways.

  “My dear,” she said. “Unless you are the result of several generations of captured European brides, you are obviously not the son of the Amir.”

  He shifted in his chair. “Didn’t say I was.”

  Ah. New York, she thought; there was a telltale broadness to the vowels. She reached down and touched him gently on the knee. “Your name?” she prompted.

  He gulped. “Johnny. Ah, Jonathan. Jonathan Duffy.”

  “Thank you, Jonathan. I’m very pleased to meet you.” She extended a hand. Johnny stared at it for a moment, then started to stick out his own. He thought better of it and swiped it quickly down the front of his robes before he took her hand and pumped it with enthusiasm. “So. You stole the Amir’s invitation so you could win the contest?”

  “I—” He darted a worried glance at Jim.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she assured him. “We’re not going to run to the Sentinel. And I rather preempted an invitation myself.”

  “Wasn’t trying to win. I’m not stupid. I know I’ve got no chance against someone like him.” He jerked his narrow chin toward Jim.

  “What, then? Where’d you get the invitation?”

  “I sold newspapers. I knew I could write, I just knew it. But they wouldn’t give me a chance, no matter how many times I asked. Kept hiring all those college boys who looked good in their suits but who didn’t know a thing about New York, not the way I know New York. And sure as hell—pardon ma’am—don’t know a thing about wanting something so bad you’d be willing to do anything to get it. I tried to get them to read something, to give me a chance, any chance. But they just kept looking at me and seeing a newsie.”

  “I see.” Sympathy welled. “Very few people can look beyond seeing what they expect to see.”

  “That’s it.” On surer ground, Johnny sat up straight. “I knew the only chance I had was to show them what I could do. Everybody at the paper was buzzing about the contest, about all the famous people who were going to particip
ate, and how much the paper was putting into it and when the invitations were going out. I figured, why not? If I found a story nobody else did, I’d have a way in. And if not, so what? I wouldn’t be any worse off than I was to start with.” He shrugged. “I don’t even know whose invitation I took. There was a whole pile of them in the mailroom. I arranged to send the articles to my sister so she could sneak them onto the editor’s desk, took up this disguise, and here I am.”

  “You wrote the article,” Jim said flatly.

  Johnny eyed him warily. “Which article?”

  “Mrs. Latimore.”

  Johnny winced. And then he lifted his chin, mustering his courage. “Nobody else got that story.”

  “You had no right,” he said, danger threading low and sharp through his voice.

  But this time Johnny held his ground—a little paler, but his shoulders were square, his gaze steady. “It’s my job.”

  “Your job to spread people’s private business out for the world to poke and prod and judge?”

  “The people have a right to know.”

  “The people have a right to know things that are none of their goddamn business?”

  Johnny surged out of the chair. “You mean the people who pay for your books, your lectures and swallow every word you tell them? Every word that you feed them through the newspapers you use to drum up interest in your expeditions? You mean those people?”

  “There’s a difference between news and plain old gossip.”

  “Lord Bennett, I—”

  “Johnny,” Kate said softly. “You can’t write about what you just heard.”

  His expression turned glum. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, ma’am. You can’t know how truly sorry I am, but—”

  “You can’t,” she said again. She moved nearer and put her hand gently on his forearm. “You heard the entire story, didn’t you? You can’t.”

  “It’s a good story, ma’am.”

  “People will get hurt.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not the truth that hurts people. It’s the lies.”

  “Johnny—”

  “He’s not going to write it.” Jim moved between them, bumping her arm away, towering over the young reporter. His voice was pitched low, his posture a clear threat. “He’s not going to write it, because he’d like to be able to write another story some day. Wouldn’t you, Duffy?”

  Johnny gulped but held his ground. “You’re not going to kill me,” he said, with only one tremor at “kill.”

  “I’m not? Are you sure? You did hear about the major, didn’t you?”

  Johnny managed a nod. “You weren’t trying to kill him. He was only fifty feet from shore, there were dozens of boats around, and you threw him a life ring.”

  “You’re very well informed. Planning on writing that one, too, were you?”

  “I intend to be very good at my job, Lord Bennett.”

  “And you’re so sure you’re right about me? This wouldn’t be about getting a story wrong. If you’re mistaken, you’re dead.”

  “You’re not a murderer,” Johnny said, growing more certain with every word. “I should have realized that right off, but you caught me by surprise.”

  “You’re sure?” He edged closer. Johnny’s nose was even with Jim’s collar. His left eye twitched but he didn’t back away.

  “I’m sure,” he squeaked.

  Jim sighed deeply. “Oh, all right. You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “I won’t kill you.” His eyes narrowed. “But I’m not opposed to making your life so very painful that you’d spend every second wishing I had just pitched you overboard and been done with it.”

  Kate stepped closer, ready to intervene if necessary. Not that seeing Jim so fierce and protective, so utterly sure of himself, didn’t have her heart thumping like a schoolgirl’s. Not that she didn’t find him more appealing at that precise second than she ever had, and she’d found him quite outrageously appealing before.

  Later, she promised herself. Later.

  “This is not helpful,” she said.

  “Give it a chance,” Jim said.

  “No.” She’d no doubt that he could instill fear-of-Jim quite effectively in Johnny. But all his threats would last about as long as the reporter was within fist’s reach. It was too good a story to forget. As soon as they hit land, Johnny would put a few miles between himself and Jim and start writing. “Johnny, it’s crucial that your sources can trust you and your word, isn’t it? Otherwise no one would ever reveal anything important to you.”

  “Yes,” Johnny agreed slowly.

  “And so if you gave a promise,” Kate continued, “you would be bound to keep it, wouldn’t you? Otherwise your ability to do your job would be irretrievably compromised.”

  He had the look of a deer being drawn to a blind. As if he sensed there were danger ahead but couldn’t quite see it. “Yes.”

  “Then perhaps you would be amenable to a trade. If I give you another story, one you could write freely without worry of retribution from Lord Bennett, you would have to promise to keep his quiet.”

  “Kate, shut up,” Jim said.

  “I would,” Johnny said.

  “Well, then.” She extended her hand.

  “Kate, shut up!”

  “Hello, Mr. Duffy. I’m Kathryn Goodale.”

  “Kathryn Go—” His eyes widened, popping back and forth between the two of them. “Ohhhh.” He took her hand but was too lost in thought to shake. Already forming sentences in his head, Kate decided.

  “Damn it.” Jim disengaged her hand and kept it in his, pulling her back. “If you write about her, Duffy, I wouldn’t count on ‘no retribution.’ I wouldn’t count on it at all.”

  “He has nothing to say about it,” Kate said briskly. “I’m giving you the story. You’re welcome to it, as long as you keep Matt Wheeler and anything that happened on the Arctic expedition out of it.”

  Johnny eyed her speculatively. “You two seemed very friendly.”

  “Oh, we are. In fact—”

  “For God’s sake, Kate, if you don’t shut up I’m throwing you overboard.”

  Johnny stepped back, a thoughtful look on his face. “There might be another possibility.”

  “Sure there is,” Jim began. “I could—”

  “Oh, be quiet,” Kate said. “Nobody believes your threats anymore. Continue, Mr. Duffy.”

  Johnny tapped his hand against his thigh, then nodded, as if he’d made up his mind.

  “There’s a girl.”

  “Son,” Jim said, “there’s always a girl.”

  Chapter 20

  Half an hour later they strolled through the narrow passageway to Kate’s cabin. Jim’s hand was light at the small of her back, outwardly polite, but sensation radiated from his touch, a promise of what was to come.

  Kate sighed, long and wistful.

  “What was that for?”

  “He’s so in love.”

  “Kate, he’s seventeen and he met her three days ago. Love’s not what I’d call it.”

  “I know, but…” Their bodies brushed as they walked—a hint of contact, barely there, enough to make him want to throw her over his shoulder and sprint to her cabin. “It’s sweet, isn’t it?”

  Something in her voice made him pause. Her eyes were hazy, her mouth soft. “Kate?”

  “The way he looked when he spoke of her,” she went on dreamily.

  Of course, Jim thought in sudden realization. She’d spent her teens caring for her sisters, her twenties as Dr. Goodale’s wife. “Wait in the cabin,” he said.

  “What?” she asked. “I thought we were…”

  “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “But—”

  He bent, stamping her mouth with a quick, hard kiss. “Half an hour,” he said, and sprinted away.

  Twenty-five minutes later Jim stood in front of Kate’s door. His palms were sweating. His heart couldn’t figure out whether to beat too fast or too slow and so
bounded uncomfortably between the two, unsettled and uneasy.

  He stood in front of the door for a good long time, trying to steady his breath, his hands.

  It shouldn’t be this hard, he kept reminding himself. He knew Kate. Knew he could please her, knew how to touch her so she trembled and sighed. It was a simple affair, carefully bounded by the requirements of their lives and the frame of the contest. Mutual pleasure without complications.

  But he wanted it to be right for her.

  Maybe she’d have right again, with other men, other times. But he wanted to be the first to give her that. If she’d remembered fondly that evening in the gazebo, he wanted this time to burn its imprint irrevocably upon her soul. Because he knew for damn sure she’d already seared her image on his.

  He lifted his hand to knock, letting it waver in the air six inches from the door while he gathered his courage. And then the door yawned open.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said. She smiled slowly. “I was getting lonely.”

  His brain froze. He lost the power of speech, the ability to reason.

  Kate.

  Her hair tumbled down, a loose cloud of gold around her shoulders, begging a man to sink his hands in deep and hold her head steady for his kiss. Her skin gleamed—face, neck, shoulders—as if sprinkled by stardust.

  She wore that confection of a nightgown she’d pulled out of her trunk that first night. It had been seductive enough in her hands, the thought of her in it devastating to his restraint.

  No matter how much he’d imagined—and he’d imagined a lot—he’d come far short of the reality. She was a vision, a dream, the kind of beauty that spawned legends. If, over a campfire, someone had described her to him, he would have called them the worst kind of liar.

  Glacier blue silk hugged her curves, the fabric so sheer he could see the indention of her navel. Except for straps so thin he could snap them with one finger, it bared her shoulders, dipping low across her breasts. Wide bands of loosely knitted lace wound diagonally around her, allowing glimpses of the skin beneath. The gown dipped low over her chest, the lace edging there, too, giving head-spinning glimpses of dark pink nipple.