by Lisa Bingham
Smothering another yawn, she tugged the bell pull and waited for the arrival of her maid. Mildred Wimps entered mere moments later, her broad face wreathed in a smile, her chubby hands clapping together in pleasure. “My, what a fine sleep you’ve had!” She rushed forward as fast as her stout body could go, reaching to plump the pillows so that Lettie could sit.
“I can’t think what came over me to stay in bed for so long,” Lettie replied.
Mildred made a clucking noise with her tongue. “It’s all that writing you’ve been doing. You know how you pace and fret and fuss ‘til a poem’s been written down. I’d dare say that the baby was plumb worn out and wasn’t above letting you know it needed some rest of its own.”
“Even so, I’m afraid I’ve neglected the children over the past day or two—and the Beasleys!” Her hands flew to her mouth. “I forgot all about the Beasleys! They must think I’m an awful hostess.”
Mildred’s brow furrowed. “But they’re gone.”
“Gone?”
“They packed their things and went to help your brother—or so they said.” She tugged a crumpled note from her pocket. “We found this in their room.”
Lettie perused the hastily scribbled note, then read it again, stifling a very unladylike snort of laughter.
“I could send the driver to retrieve them if you think it best.”
Lettie held up a hand to stop her, smiling broadly. “Not on your life. It’s apparent that the Beasleys have it in their head that they’re engaged in a mission of grave importance.” She settled back into the pillows. “Let them carry on with their plans and drive Jacob to distraction with their meddling.” A smug grin teased her lips. “It will serve my brother right for not coming to visit me as he should have done.”
Fiona knew long before they reached her father’s room that Mickaleen was in fine form. She could hear his warbling serenade from the top of the stairs. She paused, spearing Jacob with an incredulous gaze. “Ye haven’t given him whiskey, now have ye?”
Jacob’s mouth opened, then shut, and he shrugged.
“Hell’s bells, man,” she muttered, striding in the direction of the noise. “Haven’t ye got even a wee bit o’ sense?”
She would have thrown open the door, but it was locked. Fiona was forced to wait until Jacob approached, took a key from his pocket, and allowed her to enter.
The sight she saw caused her to frown in dismay. Mickaleen McFee, a spry man with the legs of a bandy rooster, was perched atop the bureau, clinging to the mirror and bellowing Irish love songs at the top of his voice, a pint of whiskey held firmly in his grip.
“Papa!”
Her call alerted the two guards, who were trying to get him down but seemed to have little effect at all on the little Irishman himself.
“Papa, ye’ll be climbin’ down from there now or I’ll be takin’ a switch t’ ye meself, d’ye hear?”
Mickaleen offered a silly grin and stared wearily in her direction. “Fiona! Me wee lass, me dearlin’.”
“Get down, Papa.”
He rolled his eyes at her tone and whispered conspiratorially to one of the guards, “She’s a spry one, she is. Full of vim and vinegar. T’ain’t a man alive that could tame that one,” he added, jerking a thumb in her direction.
Fiona felt the betraying sting of a blush begin to infuse her cheeks.
“Come along, Mickaleen.” Jacob took control of the situation, signaling to his men. Between the three of them, they were able to lift Mickaleen bodily and dump him on the bed.
The whole process must have caused Mickaleen’s head to swirl, because he cracked one eye open, attempting to focus. “Marshal Grey, as I live… an’ breathe.”
Fiona sank onto the bed beside him. “Papa, are ye ill?”
He waved aside her concern. “Nah, not a bit, I tell ye. I’m fit as a beetle in a bottle o’ beer!” He took a swig of the whiskey before she could stop him and emptied the bottle, then held it up in Jacob’s direction. “Thank’ee kindly fer the… kindnesses.” He waggled a finger in the lawman’s direction. “Jest see t’it that ye guard me daughter well, fer if ye don’t… I’ll…” His words trailed free, his hands dropped to the pillow, and his eyes flickered shut. A drunken snore began to ebb and fall from his lips.
Sighing Fiona stood, took a rumpled quilt from the foot of the bed, and drew it up to her father’s whiskered chin. When would she learn that things would never really change? She’d had such hopes for this visit. She’d thought that her father would be worried about her, that he would rush to hug her, to hear all her news. Instead, she’d found him as she usually did: drunk and sleepy.
Fiona sighed. He’d never been a cruel man. He loved her, she knew. But sometimes she wished with all her heart that she didn’t have to be the strong one.
She patted his shoulder and bent to kiss his cheek. Then, without a word, she turned and left the room, leaving Jacob to follow her.
Back at the Grand Estate, Fiona preceded Jacob into the Ambassador Suite and quickly stripped off the heavy black bonnet and leather gloves. She’d worn her widow’s weeds to visit her father, but what had been the point? No one had seen them leave, no one had seen them come, and the time with her father had been completely disappointing.
“Tired?”
She jumped a little when Jacob spoke. He’d moved so quietly behind her that she wasn’t prepared for his nearness.
“A little.”
“You should go to bed. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“I suppose.”
She crossed to the window, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to show herself. Her sigh eased into the silence.
“He does love you, Fiona.”
She didn’t bother to ask how Jacob had so easily read her thoughts.
“When I was a little girl, I was quite sure that my father was the most wonderful man in the world. He brought me to a new and exciting country and filled my life with adventures. In all the years that followed, those adventures never dimmed.”
“They merely skirted the edge of the law.”
“Maybe so.” She plunged her fingers beneath the heavy coils of hair that had been pinned to the top of her head, hoping to ease some of the tension. But the tension she felt hadn’t been caused entirely by the weight of the braids.
“He loves you,” Jacob stated again.
“Yes. But sometimes I wonder if I’m not just a bother t’ him.”
“You keep him out of jail.”
“Is that t’ be my lot in life?”
He walked toward her, slowly, deliberately, stopping mere inches away. “What do you want, Fiona?”
“More.” The word slipped reluctantly from her lips, but she refused to make an attempt to retrieve it. “I want more, Jacob Grey.”
Although she began to tremble, deep in her shoes, she couldn’t prevent herself from saying, “I still remember that afternoon so long ago—the first time I saw you.” She licked her lips to ease their dryness. “I’d never seen a man without his shirt, let alone his pants.” Her words became breathless, slightly rough. “I’ve always thought that it was wrong for me to stare at you so keenly. But I can never seem to regret looking my fill.”
“Any girl would feel the same way.”
“Would they? My father wasn’t much of a teacher as far as manners were concerned. I never really knew if I’d committed some unpardonable sin.”
“No.”
“Even so… I sometimes think of you… that way.” The admission was hesitant, nearly painful, but it had to be said to clear her mind. She glanced up at him, but he made no effort to stop her hasty disclosure. “I’ve often wondered what ye look like now. That way.”
She felt the heat of a blush tinge her cheeks from her boldness, but as much as she might wish to do so, the words could not be retreated. Fiona saw the way Jacob’s Adam’s apple moved convulsively as he swallowed, and she wondered if his throat had grown as tight as hers.
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“Am I wicked t’ think such thoughts?”
“No.” The word seemed to tear from his throat.
“Am I damned?”
He took her by the shoulders. “No.”
Drawing her close, he kissed her eyes, her cheek, her lips. She sighed and melted into him, splaying her hands wide over his chest. He’d brought such turmoil to her life, such anguishing questions. But she couldn’t stop him. She didn’t want to.
His mouth brushed her ear, causing her to tremble. Clutching at his shirt, she wondered how such an innocent gesture could cause so much feeling, so much pleasure.
“I’m not a beautiful woman, Jacob.”
“According to whom?”
“My hair is quite ordinary, my features too plain.”
He drew back, his brow furrowing as he studied her. For the first time Fiona felt him really looking at her—not as a nuisance, but as a woman. She didn’t know what he saw, but a certain wonder seemed to spread over his features, causing a strange warmth to puddle in her stomach.
“Never believe such lies.” His fingers stroked her jaw, her temple. “Even in black and dressed like a crow, you manage to set my heart tripping.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
He kissed her softly, sweetly, then gathered her close for one soul-wrenching embrace. “Now, go wash your face, relax, take off a few of those damned layers, and I’ll go order us some supper. I don’t know about you, but I’ve developed a bit of an appetite over the last few hours.”
The word appetite hung over their heads, shivering, reminding them that there were other hungers going unfulfilled. But before Fiona could say anything, he strode from the room.
Jacob returned nearly an hour later with several members of the hotel staff toting chafing dishes and china. To Fiona’s ultimate delight, he had dispensed with his rule about ladies eating like birds. There were plates of roast beef and potatoes, three kinds of bread, preserves, steamed vegetables, and sliced fruit. Then, for dessert, ice cream.
Much later, Fiona sighed in delight, licking the last of the creamy treat from her spoon. “I’ve died and been reborn in a better place.”
Jacob eyed her in fond indulgence, enjoying the act of watching her far more than he had eating his own dessert. Over dinner, he and Fiona had talked about inconsequential things—the weather, horses, the Beasleys—and with each minute that passed, he’d noted an odd occurrence. She was beginning to relax in his company, her speech growing smoother—not the affected British accent she used with Mr. Peebles, but a Midwestern American inflection with just a faint lilt of the Irish. For some reason, it delighted him no end.
“There’s a bit left in my bowl,” he teased when she sighed in infinite regret.
Fiona pulled a face, then cast a longing glance at his bowl. Seeing her gaze, Jacob laughed and pushed it toward her. He couldn’t help it. When she looked at him that way, he wanted to grant her every wish.
“Eat it.”
“Thank you ever so much. For that I shall be especially cooperative tomorrow.”
“I only wish I’d known that ice cream proves to be a far more powerful bribe for you than two pardons.”
There was the scrape of a key in the lock. The outer door opened and Rusty stepped inside, but Jacob barely noticed the man as Fiona scooped the ice cream into her mouth.
“This is my favorite food in all the world,” she proclaimed between spoonfuls.
“Obviously.”
He chuckled in delight when she poked the tip of a milk-covered tongue at him.
“Jacob?” Rusty approached the table, his hat in his hands.
Jacob was still smiling, an echo of his laughter shimmying through his body. But when his deputy stood looking at him, his eyes so bleak, so hollow, the humor immediately bled free.
Rusty looked at Fiona, then at his friend and superior. “There’s a problem. I think you’d better come with me. I’ve already fetched our mounts from the livery.”
At the mention of horses, Jacob rose. The instincts he’d come to trust so much in the past nearly pummeled him with their intensity. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The mention of mounts only served to underscore such a point. That meant that either speed or privacy was of the essence.
Immediately, his fingers curled around the hilt of his revolver. His eyes cast a searching glance about the room. When his gaze returned to the woman beside him, he realized that he must have transmitted a bit of his caution to her. Or maybe, being a woman who had also learned to live on instinct, she’d caught Rusty’s unspoken messages as easily as he.
Jacob choked on a searing epithet. “Go get the Beasleys. As soon as they’ve arrived to stay with Fiona, we’ll go.”
Rusty nodded and hurried to follow orders.
The door closed quietly behind him and Jacob immediately began dousing the gaslights, leaving only one lamp to cast a meager glow. For once Fiona didn’t balk at his cautious attitude, didn’t question. She jumped from her seat to check each of the windows, shutting out the slightest slivers of moonlight that managed to escape the closed draperies. Then she turned.
There was an obvious fear in her eyes. A stark foreboding. “My father?”
Jacob shook his head. “Rusty would have said something if Mickaleen was at the root of his concern.”
They were the only words either of them spoke for some time. When Rusty tapped on the door, they started, having sunk so deeply into their own ruminations.
Jacob slid his revolver free. Only a precaution, he silently reassured her with his eyes, but he knew that Fiona was not quite so naive.
“Rusty?” he murmured next to the door.
“Yeah.”
Holding his weapon at the ready, Jacob slid the bolt free and opened the door.
“The Beasleys are dressing. They’ll be here in a minute or two.”
Jacob nodded, then turned to Fiona. “I can stay here with you until they come.”
Fiona shook her head. “Go. It’s obvious that ye have business t’attend to.”
The Irish brogue had returned, this time brought on through fear. Jacob regretted the loss.
She studied Rusty’s sober face. “Just as it is obvious that Rusty needs you, now, but he won’t tell ye anything for fear I might worry.”
Rusty’s bristly brows rose in surprise, but Jacob felt only an odd sense of pride. She understood. This woman understood the demands of his job. She didn’t seek information or reassurance, she merely understood.
“Go gather our horses, Rusty. I’ll be right down.”
The deputy nodded and disappeared to do as he’d been told. The parlor became hushed, still. The light from the single lamp offered an intimacy that neither one of them could ignore or forget.
Closing the distance between them, Jacob slid his revolver back into its holster.
“You’ll be fine until the Beasleys come.”
“I know. I’ll just head back into the bedroom and wait… unpack a few of the things we bought today… or something.”
“You’ve been shopping?”
“With the Beasleys.”
The words they exchanged meant nothing on the surface. They merely offered a noise to fill the awful silence. A silence that reminded them that, despite the truce that had been declared between them, despite the kisses and the laughter, there were dangers lurking in the darkness outside this room. By combining forces, Fiona and Jacob had invited those dangers into their lives.
“Don’t open the door for anyone but the Beasleys.”
“I won’t.”
He saw the strength that radiated from her. The pride. This woman was a survivor, she had learned long ago to defend herself. But he couldn’t still that tiny part of him that wanted to be the protector, to show her there was still some honor in the world.
“I want you to take this.” He bent to remove the tiny derringer he kept hidden in the top of his boot.
Her eyes widened when she saw it. “But ye said—”
“Never mind what I said.” He placed the gun in her hand.
“I can’t shoot it,” she admitted shame-facedly, remembering her earlier lie.
“Here.” He put her fingers in position. Not allowing her to demur, he drew her shoulders to his chest and wrapped his arms around her, showing her how to hold it braced away from her body. “If you should need to use it, just pull back the hammer, aim, and squeeze the trigger. Squeeze it. If you jerk it, your shot will go wild.”
She nodded.
His instructions finished, there was nothing more to say, but he found that he couldn’t move. His eyes closed and he breathed her scent, felt the softness of her hair on his cheek. She felt so good pressed next to him this way. When he shifted, the bustle she wore collapsed, offering him the sweet shape of her thighs, the tickle of her skirts.
His hands moved of their own accord, sliding slowly, ever so slowly up her arms, over that scratchy black wool, until he encountered the delicate shape of her shoulders. Resolutely, he turned her to face him, peered down into those incredible topaz- and cinnamon-colored eyes. This woman was beginning to twine right into his every thought. How and when and why didn’t matter anymore.
“You were right.” The phrase emerged as a husky warning of his intent.
One of her brows lifted in silent query.
“I made at least one promise this evening that I am definitely unable to keep.”
With that, he bent to kiss her, needing her softness, her sweetness, a portion of her youth and optimism.
Her hands wound around him, and not even the potent reminder of the revolver pressing into his shoulder blade could dampen the rush of pleasure he felt when she gave freely of herself, offering her passion and her strength.
He had only a minute to enjoy the embrace. But as he retreated, he knew that the memory of it would last much longer. So much longer.
She watched him go, the hand that held the revolver dropping to her side, the other lifting to touch her throat. When he hesitated one last time to stare at her in that ugly dress…
Jacob realized he had never encountered a more lovely woman in all his days.