In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  “You are my first then. What’s your name?”

  “Salvatore.”

  “Thank you, Salvatore. I’m a bit nervous.”

  “It is expected, but there is nothing to fear. Train travel is very safe even when traveling through Brenner Pass.”

  From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone gawking at her, and abruptly glanced over her shoulder before following Salvatore onto the train. Maybe it was Jane lingering to make sure she got on or it just could have been another passenger waiting for the arrival of their train on the neighboring track. She could literally feel eyes burning at her back, just like the night before at the opera and it made her uneasy.

  Old world design reminiscent of train travel in its heyday and Art Nouveau elements amazed her when she stepped aboard. Following the porter and the overhead trail of small light bulbs down the carriage corridor, she admired the polished wood and all the small details that welcomed her to unparalleled traveling.

  Fitzwilliam would love this! How could she remain annoyed at Jane’s deception? Her sister had done so with the best of intentions knowing full-well how she would balk at the thought of traveling in Europe alone. This was top of the line, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be treated like royalty and it must have set them back a mint. They did this for her—to help her heal from the hell of the last six weeks and look ahead to the future.

  Salvatore stopped at a closed stateroom door and turned to face her with a grin. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” Her fingers tapped her thigh.

  He opened the shiny wood door, revealing a 1920s opulence she’d only read about; her eyes widened and a huge smile crossed her face. Two compartments combined made up the grand suite in colors of gold and rich marine. Under a frosted, domed ceiling accented by brass, a double-bed filled one section of the stateroom; the other was an intimate lounge and dining area. Mirrors and art-deco fixtures married jeweled brocade fabrics and inlaid geometric-designed wood panels, all transporting her back in time.

  Salvatore entered the cabin and immediately filled one of the two champagne flutes set out beside fresh-cut flowers. Handing it to her with a smile, he said. “To your exciting journey.”

  She did not drink, but pretended to when she held the crystal to her lips so as not to be rude. The celebratory bubbling draught, by its very presence, was bittersweet. She was standing in the most romantic boudoir (outside of Pemberley’s master suite) without the man she loved. Her heart crashed into her stomach.

  “You have luncheon reservations in the Cote d’Azur restaurant at 2:00 and dinner will be in the L’Oriental dining car at 9:00. If you would like, tea will be in your cabin or you can take in the sights of Northern Italy from the Lalique Car.”

  “When does the train depart Venice?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “You have time to settle in and rest before departure at 4:30 this afternoon. Now, I would be obliged to give you a tour of the Grand Suite, signora.”

  ***

  Dixon’s heart sank into his gut as he watched the luxury train pull away. He’d been following her and her batty sister all morning and even now, although she’d been settled on the train (which he could not get a ticket on) for the last five hours, he’d been lurking on the platform and examining every passenger getting on for anyone who looked suspicious or out of place. Why was Mrs. D going this leg of the trip by herself? She was heading to Prague without him at her back for the first time since that terrible day on July 22nd, but there was only one consolation: he’d watched the not-so-late Mr. D make a last-minute mad dash to board just before final departure.

  Now he could rest easy. She was in good hands—the best actually—and more than likely the passengers aboard the Orient Express would be witness to either murder or never see the two until its arrival in the Mother of Cities.

  Chuckling to himself, he considered it would be the latter after she gave him a tongue lashing he’d never forget. Those two could never keep their hands off each other for very long.

  ***

  Dead to the world on the best mattress ever, Liz had barely felt the train depart the station. She had been that exhausted following tea in her cabin and fully clothed curled into a ball. Seconds later she was out like a light.

  At her request, Salvatore’s gentle knock on her door had reminded her to get ready for dinner in case she overslept, and boy had she. Darnnit. She would have liked to remain awake to see Northern Italy and the Dolomites at sunset! Unfortunately, she was still fatigued and perhaps not quite recovered from the jet lag followed by the late night at the opera.

  Making her way down the never-ending corridors from carriage to carriage toward the bar car, she occasionally stopped at the windows to her right to admire the passing city lights blurred in the dark as the northbound train bulleted through Italy—or had they entered Austria by now? Her nose tickled at the heavenly floral scent wafting in the air. Strangely, it didn’t repulse her. In fact, she had yet to visit the commode even though the train had been rocking along the rails for three hours.

  Her stomach growled and that, too, was a good sign. At least she would enjoy dinner in the L’Oriental restaurant and was able to wear the black lace dress again.

  She felt as glamorous as she had the night before, like starring in a movie, jet-setting just as she had beside Fitzwilliam in Greece, Monte Carlo, Seville, Marrakesh, Paris, and Moscow. He’d rescued her from Longbourn and shown her the world. Heck, he gave her the world exposing her to her to private planes and priceless jewels, danger and excitement—and hot sex on steroids with a man who trusted her with his heart. Yet, here she was aboard the Orient Express with only her memories. What good was all her money and freedom to enjoy life if not beside him?

  Holding to the railing as she followed the lights and the piano music floating from the bar lounge, she held her head high determined to allow the enchantment of the venue to sweep away the sadness and uncertainty for her future ... at least for an evening. Tonight, she would mingle and have a good time meeting strangers. Tonight she’d assume the pretend role of Mrs. Margaret Thornton, the divorcee—not Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, the widow.

  “Good evening,” a handsome older man dressed in a tuxedo greeted as she neared the decorative door of the bar. His warm smile was reassuring and she returned it, feeling a little more confident.

  “Good evening,” she replied, continuing on her path to the bar, even if for just a soda water.

  The silver and black door slid open to the susurrations of passengers enjoying the novelty of luxury. The mystery in the air was palpable and sensual. Clinking glass combined with the tinkle of ivory added to the already charged evening. She stood at the edge of the private party, very much a newcomer to friendships formed while she had slept and those previously made from London and Paris during the two previous stops. In the ambient light, she admired the pianist closest to her, and the debonair men and elegant women seated in the sofas beside him, enjoying the jazzy rendition of Gershwin’s “Embraceable You.”

  The sound of liquid and ice swishing in stainless, mixing with the music swirled around her, calling her attention to the far end of the car.

  It all seemed like slow motion, when her gaze through the narrow lounge was blocked by a woman sashaying toward her. Capturing Liz’s attention, the fellow passenger’s ice blue cocktail dress shimmered like water kissed by sunlight, until sitting in a glittering pool beside the baby grand. Liz gazed up and through the long carriage, her eyes falling to the bar area where several more passengers sat watching the mixologist shake martinis over his shoulder.

  She froze. Her breath caught with a gasp.

  Wide-eyed, her gape fixed at the back of a man leaning against the bar. Oh, the cut of the fine, black suit he wore and how it complemented his height and broad shoulders. The subtle bend to his waist and identifying cock to his head seized her heart.

  Seated beside his towering physique, a gorgeous blonde held his attention as she chatted with him.
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  A ragged breath escaped Liz when he slightly turned his head to raise a rocks glass to his mouth. That unmistakable Romanesque nose and sensual quirk to his lips, that proud chin! Oh, God, that strong hand had burned her flesh a thousand times.

  She gasped again, punched in the stomach with the full-fisted strength of shock.

  Fitzwilliam.

  In the instant, her body broke into a cold sweat and every emotion collided in her mind: shock, relief, disbelief, anger, and unmitigated joy.

  Her heart thundered into her mouth, ready to cry out his name, but her lip trembled. She bit it and held onto the wall beside her, bracing herself from the same spinning she felt when learning of his death.

  And then he glanced over his shoulder, whiskey still in hand and looked straight at her.

  Her husband’s dark eyes met hers and he furrowed his brow.

  He is alive. Good God! He’s alive! And with another woman!

  Darkness closed in on her. The voices of those around her faded. Her knees buckled, sending her down onto the floor in a well-dressed heap.

  25

  Murder on the Orient Express?

  Darcy’s heart shattered along with the glass in his hand when it dropped to the bar. “Liz!”

  Bolting from the bar, he pushed through the crowd as astonished cries rang out and the piano stopped when his wife fell to the floor from the shock of seeing him.

  He was beside her in a flash, raising her into his arms. How is she here? Why is she here?

  “C’mon, baby. Wake up,” he pleaded, caressing her face. “Can someone get some water,” he asked a little too anxiously.

  One hand smoothed over and down her forehead and soft cheek while his other cradled her shoulders.

  Filled with concern, the crowd stood around them—interlopers to the unexpected reunion. He felt all eyes upon him except for the ones he so desired to look into. After endless seconds, Liz’s long lashes fluttered open. Her expressive hazel eyes locked with his—half awake, half asleep, definitely believing him a ghost.

  “Is it ... you?” she asked dreamily. “Fitzwilliam? ... is that ... you?”

  “It is, baby. I’m right here, holding you tight. You’re not dreaming.”

  Her eyes fluttered, fighting the pull to close in the tense silence between them.

  Her hand tugged from his. Her eyes now wide open and on fire.

  Whack!

  Palm and fingers slammed against his cheek with all her reserved strength.

  He winced, closing an eye from the hard sting.

  She passed out again.

  His wife sure packed a wallop, but it was small potatoes compared to what was to come. He knew that the sting of her hand was nothing compared to her sharp tongue’s biting words. They were going to tear him to shreds.

  He heard someone laugh. Embarrassment had been his primary emotion just moments before, but now he was angered. Yes, he was embarrassed that his wife’s slap actually stung, but he knew he deserved that and so much more from her. That idiot in the background had no idea what she had been through.

  Lifting her into his arms, he ignored all the onlookers and the outstretched hand bearing a water glass, then carried her from the carriage. It was not even ten seconds before strains of “Isn’t it Romantic,” floated down the hall behind his determined feet.

  The train rocked uneasily over the rails through the mountains, going as full-tilt as his adrenaline.

  But, oh, how the feel of her lying in his arms was heaven. Holding her against his beating heart and breathing in her distinct strawberry scent that only a lover would recognize filled him with a sense of peace despite the burn to his cheek. He was home, doing exactly what he loved the most in this world: sharing one space and every second with her.

  Having lost so much weight, she felt light as a feather in his arms, and she stirred when he carried her into the next carriage, but he’d not wake her until they were safe and soundproof in his Pullman compartment.

  In the silent, hurried aftermath of what just happened, he readied himself for the blow-out to come. After seeing her at the opera last night, he’d finally faced the intrusive thoughts that had tormented his conscience over the last four weeks: how the hell was he going to reappear into her life? In fact, he was thinking that very thing when tuning out the overtly interested blonde to his left. But then … Liz entered the car and he felt her electricity carry in the air straight to his soul.

  “There are two ways of seeing: with the body and with the soul. The body’s sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever.” Dumas had written.

  His heart nearly burst from his chest when their eyes met across the length of the carriage.

  She’d never looked more captivating at that moment than any other for the simple fact that his soul had been living in a frozen abyss of death and revenge. All he’d seen around him was darkness and the face of evil. Her radiance tonight, lit his soul, calling him from his focused mission of facing Morales in two days, and calling him into the light and purity of the love she had for him.

  Ahead, his cabin steward opened the compartment door and winked. If only the evening would end the way the man thought it would, but he knew better!

  Under the soft diffuse of a reading lamp beside the pull-down bed, he laid her down and the porter closed the door behind them.

  His heart thundered. She was here—with him—and it was only for the next 24 hours on this train that she’d be safe. Why was she here and who was she with? Did Rick have anything to do with this? Had Traitor Tom betrayed him? This is too dangerous!

  Staring down at her peaceful countenance, he felt like he had that night in Monte Carlo when he walked away from the feelings he had for her. He’d watched her while she slept, his heart breaking, his spirit separating itself from hers in order to protect her, yet all he wanted to do was to make love to her and proclaim his undying devotion. Just like now.

  He ran his hand through his hair and paced the narrow strip of carpet alongside the bed, then abruptly stopped, turning to squat beside her.

  “Liz,” he whispered in her ear. “Lakmé, wake up.”

  Bending over her, he closed his eyes, kissing her plump burgundy lips, lingering on them as his hand brushed down the side of her face.

  Oh yes, she came to life, but not as he hoped. Like a wild animal, she thrashed under him with a fight, arms flailing and pushing at him.

  “Stop, stop, Liz. Calm down.”

  Her breath was ragged as she tried to make sense of the nonsensical. Was he alive, a dream, or a ghost?

  “It’s me Fitzwilliam—in the flesh.”

  He waited for her to say something but nothing came even when she opened her mouth to speak. He reached out but she pulled away.

  “I couldn’t tell you my plans.”

  Sitting up, she pushed at him to get away from her when he tried to assist her in her confusion and grogginess.

  “Get away from me!” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. He could feel the tension rolling off her body, filling the cabin with a coldness that even the Iceman couldn’t withstand. Such was the power and strength she possessed and had over him.

  “I know you’re angry; I knew you would be, but I had no choice.”

  He said nothing further when she didn’t look up at him or reply. She just turned her head to the window, and he waited, listening to the train’s steady hum and click over the rails and the undeniable pulse throbbing in his ears: one minute passed, two minutes, five very long incommunicado minutes with the same unbreachable posture.

  His hand flexed open, close to keep from reaching out to her only feet from him.

  Finally, she abruptly stood, nostrils flaring like a bull charging as she powered toward him in two steps. The set to her mouth was unmistakable and he braced himself for her wrath.

  And it came, hard and swift like a cobra strike—a fisted right hook to his chin that knocked him back against the cabin door.

  Whoa. Regaining
his footing, he rubbed and reset his jaw, cocking his head with a wince and an “Ow!”

  “That’s for lying!”

  She made to punch him again, but this time he caught her right wrist. Instead, she blindsided him with a southpaw punch to the left side of his jaw. “That’s for dying!”

  And then it came … all the raw emotion within her erupted into a cascade of tears. He let go of her arm and she fell into his chest, arms squeezing him, touching him everywhere in disbelief. “Oh my God. You are alive,” she wept. “Alive!”

  “Yes.”

  She sobbed from her core. “I love … you … so much! I couldn’t do it without you. Why did you go?” Her uncontrollable weeping wracked her body against his chest and then her fists angrily pounded against him.

  “You left meee … all alone without warning or a word!”

  He took her wrists in his hands, holding them aloft when he locked his eyes to hers. “What did I say to you by the waterfall? Tell me?”

  “That I … should trust you, no matter what.”

  “And what did I promise when we parted ways?”

  “That … that I could count on you … coming back, but you didn’t, Fitzwilliam! You died. I … wanted to ... die,” she finally choked and then the weeping came stronger than before in short anguished breaths. “I begged ... that you’d come back!”

  He sighed, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against him. His heart broke for the pain he inflicted on her, and his tears mirrored hers when they slid down his cheeks.

  They stayed like this, leaning against the door for sweet and sorrowful minutes until she finally whispered. “You … kept your promise. You’re here. You’re … really here. Tell me I’m not … dreaming.”

  The man he’d been for the last four weeks was beaten and broken, melting onto his wife as the tears tracked from his own eyes. It took her love to pull him from the abyss and overcome, his knees went weak. Together they lowered to the floor. “I’ve missed you so much, baby. I have been dead, but seeing you … ”