Just Once

by Jill Marie Landis

  And he couldn’t very well think of her as St. Theresa forever.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jemma O’—” Her eyes widened. “I would prefer not to tell you my last name just yet. At least until we’re out of New Orleans.”

  “You wanted for anything, Jemma-O?”

  She shook her head and smiled that infernal angelic smile. “It’s just Jemma. And no, I’m not wanted for anything. But … with the threat of the emir’s men always hanging over my head, I feel the less you know, the better for both of us.”

  If nothing else, she was one hell of a storyteller. Thinking of the glittering gold piece, he offered, “I’ll take you as far as Sandy Shoals in Kentucky. From there you can join another party traveling up to Canada.”

  He cursed himself even as he made the offer. She was bound to slow him down, just when he was set on getting back with his brother’s whiskey money, determined to announce to everyone in his family circle that he was finally heading west.

  He was such a damn idiot.

  “Here, then.” She held out the gold piece.

  “I’ll have to use part of it for your traveling supplies,” he told her. His fingers slipped across her palm as he took the coin. Hunter shoved it into the possibles bag at his waist. The small leather pouch held an assortment of life’s necessary items: flints, money, a chaw of tobacco, the lucky arrowhead he’d dug out of the old bear who had tried to eat Jed Taylor before Hunter came along to kill it, the money he’d made from Luther’s whiskey.

  Turning away from her, he nudged the stained, moss-filled mattress with the toe of his moccasin. He would have preferred making a lean-to in the open to sleeping in this flea-bitten room that was no doubt crawling with bedbugs, too. He hated towns—hated the crowds and the noise and the filth that came from so many people congregated in one place, but he couldn’t very well have had the girl bed down on the street.

  “Are you related to Daniel Boone?”

  He didn’t miss the awe in her voice; when he looked up, he found her staring at him with something akin to hero worship in her eyes.

  “He’s a distant cousin. Real distant. Never met him.”

  “My grandfather met him once,” she said.

  “Your grandfather ever live in Algiers, too?” He couldn’t resist, but the question didn’t bother her at all.

  “For a while. There’s only one bed here,” she reminded him unnecessarily.

  Hunter sighed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “Oh, no. I’ll sleep on the floor,” she quickly volunteered.

  He looked at the mattress again and guessed there was more than kindness behind her gesture of goodwill. He didn’t want the damn mattress either.

  It was amicably decided that both of them would sleep on the floor on either side of the pallet. He gave her one of the blankets. She wrinkled her nose at it but didn’t complain as she spread it on the floor. Wrapping herself in her damp cape, she lay down on the hard planks and closed her eyes. Within seconds after she had stopped talking—which in itself, he thought, was a miracle—she had fallen asleep.

  Before he blew out the lamp, Hunter retrieved his Kentucky long rifle and loaded it with dry powder. He would keep it beside him while he slept. A breeze wafted through the window. The lamplight fluttered. The rain had become a full-fledged storm, but it didn’t seem to bother the girl. She was still asleep with her head cradled on her arm.

  He snuffed out the lamp and lay down. The noise outside the room had tapered off to an occasional shout or the crash of a bottle. Lightning flickered, illuminating the room in ghostly silver.

  Hunter lay on his side, his shoulder already aching where it pressed against the hard floor, listening to the irritating, incessant plop, plop, plop of water as it dripped into various puddles around the room. They would be lucky if they didn’t drown in their sleep.

  He could hear Jemma’s deep, even breathing over the sound of the rain. The storm was moving inland. Lightning continued to flash. Thunder echoed from afar. Hunter glanced over at his new charge, who looked even more like an angel-come-to-earth in her sleep than she had awake. Her blond curls teased one cheek. Her hand lay palm up, relaxed, soft and white. Like Amelia’s, but not like anyone’s at Sandy Shoals. This girl had never done a hard day’s work in her life. She was either totally vulnerable or totally convincing.

  He hated the fact that he was tempted to get up, walk around the mattress, and touch her hair to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

  There was still time to forget the gold piece, leave it with her and climb out the window. He didn’t owe this stranger anything, didn’t have to spare her another thought.

  Jemma-with-no-last-name would have to look out for herself.

  Without making a sound, Hunter sat up, drew one knee to his chest, and draped his arm over it. He stared through the darkness, still intrigued, too pestered by his ruminations to sleep.

  What respectable young girl would be out on the streets of New Orleans alone? Why did she want to get out of the city so badly that she would put her trust and her life in the hands of a man she’d never laid eyes on?

  He glanced at the door. Things had quieted down some outside. If he was going to walk out, now was the time, while she was asleep. Before she could talk him into staying.

  He thought of the man who had grabbed her in the tavern and the gambler who had wrestled with her beneath the streetlight. His conscience would plague him for weeks if he left her now.

  The truth of the matter was that he had made an agreement with her and above all, he was a man of his word.

  There was no going back on it now.

  Chapter 4

  By the overcast light of a new dawn, the squalid rented room looked worse than it had in the darkness. So did the reality of her situation. Jemma furtively paced the confines of the tiny room, familiar with every stain and crack on the uneven planking. The hideous stench of the place—a combination of fish, stale liquor, and something else she didn’t want to think about—was so thick she could almost taste the very air.

  As she skirted the mattress on the floor and crossed the room for the hundredth time, she tugged the ripped shoulder of her gown and then she pressed her open palm to her forehead.

  Hunter Boone was gone, ostensibly after supplies. He had left just before dawn, but not until she had sworn she would not open the door until she heard his voice again. The last she’d seen of him was his backside as he crawled out the window, insisting he didn’t want anyone to realize she was in the room alone.

  Now, what seemed an eternity later, her imagination was proving to be a curse rather than a gift. Had Boone taken her last coin and deserted her? She didn’t know which upset her more, the idea that he would not be coming back or that at some point she was going to have to actually open the door and face the creatures outside the room.

  The seductive quiet outside the door lulled her into a sense of security. Her silk slippers, ruined by the mud and mire of the streets, made no sound as she crossed the room and paused with her ear to the rough wooden door. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine opening it and stepping out into the unknown. Her options were limited by the mere fact that she was a woman. Thanks to her own foolhardiness, she was now penniless as well.

  The hollow, ominous sound of the cathedral bells marked the hour. The church was not that far away. If she could safely leave this den of iniquity and somehow make her way alone through the streets, she might take sanctuary there, explain her situation and beg shelter at a convent, at least until her father arrived. Once there, she would have months to repent her impulsive, rash act.

  Forgetting the fetid stench in the air, she took a deep breath and gagged as her empty stomach revolted. She had to get out. She whirled around and retrieved the musty wool cloak, still damp, and flung it around her shoulders. Drawing the hood up, she fastened the ties, reminded of the gold catch on the elegant velvet cloak she had traded for this ragbag piece. She could have used the ornate fili
gree ornament to buy her way out of this place.

  Her hand was on the bolt that secured the door from within when a powder flash of memory of last night’s sequence of events fell into place like dominoes. The Moreau letter, the dark-haired girl in the cathedral shadows, the heart-stopping terror of being accosted on the street, finding Hunter Boone. It had been so dramatic, so very thrilling—the stuff of Grandpa’s tales and her wildest daydreams. But now, with no more substance than imagination, the dream had vanished. She was alone in this foul, hellish back room of the devil’s own lair.

  Just as Jemma was about to throw the bolt and run for it, a quick, gentle tap sounded on the other side of the door. Hunter’s low whisper demanded that she open up. Now.

  Jemma unlocked the door and barely had time to clear the doorway before Hunter strode into the room. His arms were full of a bundle of coarse fabrics, all of them drab and definitely unattractive, along with his ever-present rifle. He tossed the clothes at her.

  “Take your clothes off.” He propped the weapon in the corner of the room.

  “I will do nothing of the sort. Where have you been? Do you realize I’ve been frantic with worry, thinking you had run off with my money with no intention of fulfilling your end of our bargain?”

  “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  “I didn’t think you would leave me in this … this sty … so long. I’m starving. What are you looking at?”

  “A madwoman, I think.”

  He crossed his arms and stood there, silent, waiting for her to undress. He filled the room with his very presence, all leather and fringe with the sun stamped bronze on his skin, the essence of the outdoors evident in his untamed hair and the moss-green emerald of his eyes.

  “I take it you want me to put these on,” she said, indicating the bundle in her arms.

  “You can’t go waltzing up the Trace in that ball gown you’re wearing.”

  Suddenly the ruined gown was important to her. It was a last, albeit soiled remnant of home. “This isn’t a ball gown. It’s—”

  “Torn and flimsy and won’t last a half a day more where we’re going. It’s cold up north.” Hunter reached out for her sleeve and rubbed the expensive fabric between his rough fingers. He glanced down at her slippered feet.

  “There are shoes wrapped up in the other things. Put them on, too.”

  Jemma clung to the bundle in her arms. Her chin went up a notch. “Step outside, please.”

  “Some of the drunks out there are beginning to stir. I’m staying right here.”

  “You actually intend to stand there while I change clothes?”

  “I suggest you get started.”

  Her face was afire. She had already compromised herself by spending the night unchaperoned with this man, but to actually disrobe and engage in so intimate an act as dressing was unthinkable.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

  “Maybe you’re having second thoughts about this trip?”

  “Just because I won’t undress in front of you?”

  “We’re going to be in very close company for weeks. We’re going to be eating together, riding together. I’m going to know more about you than you know about yourself by the time we get to Sandy Shoals.”

  “Weeks? I didn’t know it would take that long. I—”

  “You can still change your mind.”

  He was watching her closely. All the doubt she had experienced during his absence shimmied to the forefront of her mind. It would be so simple to agree, to call it off.

  To miss the adventure.

  “No. I’ll not change my mind.”

  “Then you’ll have to get used to doing what I say, when I say it. Your life will depend on it.”

  “I doubt that my life depends on my changing clothes in front of you.”

  He sighed. It was the wordless expression of a man at the end of his tether. Jemma knew better than to push him.

  “All right. Have it your way, but please turn around.”

  Hunter turned, wishing he could ignore the sound as easily as he was avoiding the sight of her changing. As the silk rustled behind him he couldn’t help but imagine the barely blue material sliding off her shoulders, over her ample breasts, into a sensuous pool at her feet. His fingertips still tingled from the feel of the silk. He was willing to bet that her skin would feel the same, if not smoother.

  All morning, as he had gone about the business of outfitting her for the trail, he’d told himself he would regret it. The reality of at least four weeks alone with this beguiling, exasperating, infuriating, and definitely tempting young woman was daunting. Who was she really? Why did she insist on going upriver? He doubted she would ever tell him the truth.

  “These are pants!”

  “You’ll stand a better chance of not being singled out on the Trace if you wear them.”

  “Just like Thecla.” There was awe in her tone.

  “Who?”

  “St. Thecla. I pray to her all the time. She was a young virgin who was persecuted and dressed like a man to escape ravishment—”

  “Are you dressed yet?”

  “No. Could you have found itchier clothing?”

  He almost smiled. “Are you ready?”

  “No! Don’t turn around.”

  The words were muffled. He pictured her tugging the shirt over her curly blond head, struggling into it. He had convinced himself that he was about to set out on a fool’s errand, all because he had never been able to turn his back on someone in need. When was he going to learn?

  “Were these the only shoes you could find?”

  Hunter turned around. Jemma-with-no-last-name was standing there holding out the battered brown leather shoes he’d bought right off a cabin boy walking along the levee.

  “They look to be your size,” he commented offhandedly.

  “They’re hideous. They weigh more than a barrel of rocks. Even with these impossibly coarse socks they’ll probably raise blisters.” She looked down and wriggled her toes.

  He wanted to laugh. Waiflike, her bewitching figure was completely disguised. Standing there clutching the salt-stained, hard leather shoes, she was dwarfed by the baggy pants and billowing oversized shirt that came to her knees.

  Beyond the door, the ominous sound of shattering wood rent the temporary peace. The girl dropped one shoe, her bright-eyed gaze darting to the door and then back.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “My guess is it was the sound of a chair meeting its end.”

  As she bent to retrieve the shoe, an inhumane growl followed by the sound of a body crashing against the wall drew their attention. The growl was followed by a long-winded threat.

  “I’m the son of a three-headed buffalo raised up by a she-wolf and a grizzly! Try to pick my pocket again, you som’bitch, and I’ll have your hide stripped off your worthless bastard’s body before you know it’s gone.”

  The voice could have belonged to anyone of the derelict rivermen in the outer room. Hunter glanced at the door when another resounding thud and then a tremor shook the flimsy wall.

  “Are they trying to break in?” The girl’s voice quivered with fright.

  “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time before somebody sobers up enough to remember your entrance last night.” He walked over to her and held out his hand.

  “Give me your shoes.”

  Obviously too upset to argue, she handed over the shoes. He motioned to her to sit. When she lowered herself to the floor, Hunter hunkered down on one knee, put the one shoe down beside him, and pulled a bulky wool stocking out of the other.

  “Here.” He gave her the sock and she pulled it on, grimacing at the odor.

  “I see you spared no expense,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “There weren’t a lot of choices on the street this time of day.”

  “May I ask where you got these?” She extended her foot as casually as if he slipped shoes on them every morning.

  “You don
’t want to know. Believe me.” Her foot with its delicate high arch was smaller than his hand. He fitted the shoe over the bulky stocking and tapped the heel in place, but not without noticing her well-turned ankle and shapely calf. She shifted her bottom on the hard floor and gave him a blushing, grateful smile as she lifted her other foot.

  Her innocence gave his tired heart a jolt. The room seemed to shrink to the space around them. So bright, so trusting, she appeared even more the angel in the foul room. Her skin was warm against his hands.

  Hunter cursed and hurried his task. Realizing he was not as immune to her charms as he thought, he vowed to keep his distance from her on the trail. Female companionship wasn’t something he needed or wanted in his life. Amelia had taught him as much. He was a self-avowed loner, determined to leave Sandy Shoals and explore the far reaches of the frontier as soon as he delivered Luther’s money and told everyone good-bye.

  The girl was staring up at him with her big blue eyes. He shoved her shoe on and let go of her as if she were a hot rock. Reaching around her, he picked up the black felt hat that had been wrapped inside the other clothing and began to pound his fist inside the crown, trying to shape it, but it still looked like a lump of coal. He shrugged and jammed it on her head until her face was almost hidden.

  She immediately shoved the hat back and tilted it at a rakish angle. Hunter reached out, grabbed the overwide brim and pulled it back down until it was low on her brow, hiding all but the lower half of her face.

  “Leave it there or you’re on your own,” he warned.

  She frowned again and wrinkled her nose but didn’t touch the hat. “No coat?”

  “I left it with the other supplies and the horses at a stable a few blocks away.”

  She glanced around the room, then jumped as another loud crash thundered outside the door. Hunter scooped up her gown, paused when her white petticoat fell out of the silk folds, and then balled up the gown and undergarment and rolled them both inside her green wool cape.