He gave her full marks for gumption. She ratcheted herself up to her full height, which put the top of her head somewhere in the region of his collar button. “That I am, sir.”
That he doubted, but had the good sense not to say so. He figured his best bet would be to get her somewhere where she could collapse in private. The sooner she got over whatever ailed her, the sooner she could start answering questions.
Such as what they were doing here.
Such as what the devil they wanted from him. He’d done his best to make up for their loss. If it wasn’t enough, then that was just too bad. He had damned well wiped out his savings, which meant he’d had to postpone his plans.
Not that any amount of money could make up for the loss of a loved one. More than most men, Galen knew that. It was beyond his power to bring back Declan O’Sullivan. The man was dead, and fair or not, he himself was alive. O’Sullivan’s mates had let him know straight out they thought it was a rotten trade, but there wasn’t one damned thing he could do about it other than live with the burden of guilt.
And then he’d come home to yet another tragedy. Brand had never uttered a single word of blame, but Galen knew that the blame for his youngest brother Liam’s death rested at least in part on his own shoulders.
But dammit, guilt or no guilt, the last thing he needed was a readymade family!
For a man who considered himself suave, polished, cool under pressure—all of which he was, if only because he’d deliberately cultivated those qualities—Galen couldn’t come up with a single thing to say that was even faintly adequate, much less appropriate to the occasion.
He gazed across the Norfolk and Southern tracks at the stately houses that lined Pennsylvania Avenue, as if the answer could be found there.
Dammit, his feet hurt. He’d thought when he’d taken over the Pasquotank Queen that looking the part of a dangerous gambling man would not only be good for business, it might keep some of the young bucks in line. Adopting the black frock coat, the tall western boots, ruffled shirt, and flowing tie of some of the most notorious professional gamblers he’d met out West had all been a part of the dangerous image he’d deliberately cultivated.
By the time he’d discovered that the constant wearing of high-heeled boots threw him off balance just enough to worsen the ache of his leg, it was too late to change. He’d seen the wary looks a few of the reckless younger set sent him, heard their whispers. Obviously, he impressed the devil out of them, quite literally. Which had been his intention, after all.
But his legs were cramping, and his head was aching, and now he had this little green-eyed ragbag to deal with. “Would you, uh—care for a glass of ice tea?” It was the best he could come up with at short notice. “And maybe a bite to eat?” he added with grudging generosity.
“No, thank you. If you’d be so kind as to direct us to the nearest boardinghouse, we’ll not bother you further, sir.”
Galen sighed. Against all reason, he found himself wishing Aster was back so that he could turn the pair of them over to her. God knows what she’d do with them—put them on the next train north, probably. At least his own conscience would be clear.
He looked from one face to the other, one plain and expectant, the other wary, far too pale, yet oddly arresting. He’d seen better-dressed scarecrows.
And that hair . . . thick, black as pitch, with the ugliest hat he’d ever seen on any woman riveted squarely on top.
Ah, what the hell. He gave in with as much grace as he could muster. “Come along then, I’ll see you aboard the boat and send someone for your trunk.”
Not another boat. Katy opened her mouth to protest and then shut it again as she blinked away the spots that swam before her eyes. Warily, she watched the tall, dark-clad man stride across the siding to speak to a gentleman wearing a red cap. He flipped him a coin—silver, not copper. She had a sinking feeling she might have insulted the porter by offering him a penny for the use of a wet towel.
If this was the right Mr. McKnight, they were in trouble. She’d expected an older man, someone more like her own da. Instead, here was this dapper gentleman wearing Sunday clothes on a Thursday morning, and him with the face of a fallen angel.
Oh, she didn’t trust him, not a bit of it. Not with those cold blue eyes and that streak of white hair. Besides all that, he had the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen on a man. Smooth, clean, with the long fingers all dusted with golden hair.
Her own hands were still callused and hard, the peat stains still evident around her fingernails. Self-consciously, she buried them under a fold in her skirt, wishing she had thought to wear her gloves instead of packing them away in her valise.
“It’s not more than a block away, if you don’t mind walking.”
Tara was bouncing on her feet. The child had been cooped up so long, she couldn’t stand still. Katy would have liked nothing better than to lie down right here on the planks in the sunshine and sleep for a week.
But there were arrangements to be made. And to be truthful, she would sell her soul for a good, strong cup of tea and a bite to eat.
The gentleman took up her valise in one hand, and crooked an elbow. Cautiously she placed her hand on his arm. The jolt that raced through her she set down to being tired to the bone.
Just to be sure, though, she peered at him under the cover of her hat brim, only to find that even from this angle, even frowning fit to scare the devil, he was so handsome he took her breath away.
With her free hand, she smoothed her limp skirt, as if smoothing away the wrinkles would make up for days of travel. They set out along the wharf, and Mr. McKnight pointed out the sights along the way. A lumber mill and a railroad wharf, the homes of a judge and a prominent merchant.
She could tell he’d sooner be left to his own thoughts, not that they were all that pleasant from the looks of him. She was searching for a polite way to tell him he needn’t put himself out to be entertaining when he nodded to two of the fanciest boats she had ever seen in all her born days.
“The big one with the blue awnings is the Albemarle Belle. Mine’s the one on the far side. The Pasquotank Queen, at your service.”
Katy made what she sincerely hoped was an appropriate response, but all she could think of was tea and her empty, aching belly. There’d be time enough to look for a place to stay once she’d had herself a bite to eat.
Tara skipped and chattered away, gawking at all the cupolas and fancy windows on the houses across the train yard, at the river with its boats of every size and description, the wharves with their warehouses and fish houses, drunks and stevedores, and even a few painted women. She asked dozens of questions without waiting for a single answer.
Katy glanced nervously at the man beside her. She had gone over it in her mind again and again on the long journey south, wondering if she’d done the right thing by accepting the money.
She had managed to convince herself, with Tara’s help, that returning it would have hurt the man’s feelings. Seeing him now, face-to-face with those cool blue eyes, with his fine and fancy suit, she wondered if he even had any feelings.
Surely not the kind of feelings she could ever understand.
She could hear the soft even sound of his breathing. She could smell his scent, faint and crisp and clean, like fine woolens and tobacco. The intimacy of it took her by surprise, for she’d never felt such a thing before, didn’t know what to make of it.
Better to make nothing at all. If the scent of a man and the sound of his breathing could overset her, then she was in worse condition than she’d thought.
“Here we are,” Mr. Galen announced in a voice Katy suspected was meant to sound cheerful. It didn’t fool her, not for a minute.
When he turned in alongside the fanciest floating palace ever a body could imagine, a dozen questions rose to the tip of her tongue, but before she could ask a single one, her stomach gave a noisy rumble. She flushed. Tara grinned. Mr. Galen tossed a coin to a sweeping boy and told him to see t
o the trunk that would be coming along directly. Then, reclaiming Katy’s arm, he led them up the red carpeted gangplank.
Tara skipped on ahead. Katy tried to hang back. Sunlight danced blindingly off the water. She was acutely aware that a wharf full of strangers had stopped to stare. Men with an unsavory look about them followed their progress. Ragged little boys stopped skipping stones to whisper among themselves. A frumpy-looking woman dressed in dirty green satin called out, “You could do better than her, love.”
Wanting only to disappear, Katy let herself be led aboard the gaudy stern-wheeler. As the smell of fried onions drifted out to meet her, mingling with the familiar smell of fish, her belly gave another noisy protest.
“Miss O’Sullivan? Are you coming?”
He sounded so impatient. Katy glanced around for Tara, and saw her back on the wharf again, busy chatting up the sweeping boy, who was staring at her as if he couldn’t make out a word she was saying. Hardly surprising. The child could talk a chaffinch out of her nest.
Katy opened her mouth to call her back and sighed, instead. If only she weren’t so terribly tired. If only her monthlies hadn’t come on her three days ago. If only she’d dared eat the sumptuous meals served in the dining car.
If only she’d never let herself be talked into following a dream all the way to this big, noisy land where they were at the mercy of strangers. She’d been miserably ill on the crossing, but not so far gone she hadn’t heard the whispered tales about fancy gentlemen who pretended to help innocent young girls fresh off the boat, only to spirit them away for evil purposes. She’d heard it said of London and Liverpool, but who was to say it couldn’t happen here in America, as well?
And this Queen of his, or whatever it was he’d called her, looked to Katy like a floating den of iniquity. Never in all her born days had she seen such a monstrous fancy boat. As if to prove her right, a painted lady in a red silk gown appeared on one of the railed balconies, shamelessly flaunting herself in broad daylight.
Tara meandered along the gangplank as if they had all the time in world, gawking at everything in sight. Katy turned to go after her when a sudden wave of dizziness forced her to stop and cling to the railing.
“Miss O’Sullivan? Are you all right?”
Cold sweat broke out on her body. She felt chilled in spite of the overwhelming heat of the sun. Clinging to the wooden rail, she waited for the spots in front of her eyes to clear away.
“Take my arm, I won’t let you fall.”
“I’ll not be falling,” she whispered, accepting the extended arm and swallowing as a fresh wave of dizziness assailed her.
“Lord love us, I hope she ain’t carrying a disease,” someone whispered.
“Looks puny to me, don’t she look puny to you, hon?”
Tara hurried up, a worried look on her face. “Katy, are you ailing?”
Before Katy could open her mouth to reassure her that she was perfectly all right, the child was explaining to everyone within earshot that poor. Katy hadn’t been able to keep a morsel down for weeks, nor had she dared eat more than dry bread aboard the train for fear it would return on her.
“Tara, hush,” Katy whispered fiercely. For all she hadn’t a wicked bone in her body, the child had no more discretion than a bleating sheep.
She managed a sickly smile for all the people who had crowded around, most looking concerned, a few merely curious. And then she was swept up in a pair of strong arms.
Clinging with both hands, she opened her mouth to protest, gulped in the familiar scent of bay rum, wool, and tobacco, and gave up the struggle.
A gruff voice somewhere above her head said, “Tara, go aboard and ask for Ila, there’s a good girl.”
Father in Heaven, look after her if I die here in this heathen land with not so much as a decent wake to mark my passing. Just don’t let her end up in a workhouse. Or worse.
Forcing her eyes to open, Katy called on the last vestige of strength she possessed. “Tara must have schooling,” she said hoarsely, addressing the square, clean-shaven jaw inches away from her face. “And our mother’s books—she’s to have those. Promise me!”
“Shh, you’ve nothing to worry about. Tea, am I right? Strong tea and dry crackers to settle your stomach? Traveling affects some that way, but we’ll have you back in fighting trim in no time, that I promise you.”
Dreading the return of the awful seasickness that had plagued her all the way across the ocean, Katy clung to the shoulders of the handsome devil who carried her across the deck of his fancy boat, praying he wouldn’t drop her. “Strong,” she managed to whisper, unsure if she meant the man or the tea. As the spots coalesced into a darkening veil, she added, “And no milk . . .”
*
Ila Billings, the woman who served as housekeeper and manager of his female staff, stood by the bed, hands on her broad, bony hips, a dour look on her face. Galen had just come back from paying the freight on the trunk that had been sent over from the freight office.
He peeled off his coat, flung it aside, and loosened his tie. “What’s the verdict? Is she really sick?”
“Mostly needing food. As for what else ails her, it’s not catching, so you can take that look off your face.”
Galen flung out his hands in a gesture meant to convey innocence. He couldn’t take his eyes off the small form lying so still and pale in his bed, with acres of glossy black hair spread out across his pillow.
He should’ve taken her to the spare cabin. “Thanks, Ila. You can go now, I’ll take over here.”
“I’m not going nowhere. She’s a respectable girl, for all she’s ragged out so poor and all.”
“Give me credit for half an ounce of common decency, will you? Now go tell Willy to make us a pot of tea. Tell him to boil the stuff if he has to, just be sure it’s strong enough to float nails. And no milk.”
“You want I should bring up some of that pork stew we had for supper last night?”
The slight figure on the bed stirred, moaned something under her breath, and subsided. Galen lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a gesture of defeat. “I seriously doubt if Miss O’Sullivan would appreciate it. How about toasted bread, no butter, and a bit of ginger conserve?”’
“It ain’t ginger she needs to settle her belly. There’s times when a woman has more to bear than’s fair, I’ll tell you that.”
“Don’t bother, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Men!” she snorted in exasperation, but left to fetch tea and toast. At the door, she turned back for a parting shot. “I’m going to add a dollop of whiskey to the teapot. It’ll help ease her miseries.” She strode away in a swish of taffeta, her parting words echoing down the passageway, as they were meant to do. “Cowards, every last one of ‘em. If a man had to put up with half of what a woman has to put up with in this vale of tears, you’d never hear the last of it.”
Galen swore and slammed the cabin door. He grabbed the back of his neck, digging his fingers into the knotted muscles there, and then flung himself onto his sturdy oak desk chair and began kneading his thigh.
Damned old bones. Damned old boots. Where the hell had he been the day the Lord had handed out brains?
After a few minutes he swiveled around so that he could keep watch on the bed. Or rather, on its occupant.
Ila had removed her collar and loosened the top buttons of her shirtwaist. Even with the balcony door propped back and all six portholes wide open, the room was hot as blazes.
He thought about uncovering her, reached out and touched her brow, and then her hand, and decided she needed the light spread, after all. She was cold. Clammy.
He didn’t want her here. Didn’t need her here. God knows what he’d been thinking of, but when she’d fainted, the only thing he could think of was getting her away from all the curious eyes.
He could have put her in Ila’s room, but it would’ve been even hotter than his. There was plenty of space here on the top deck if he’d taken the time to think things throug
h. Originally there’d been four staterooms, but when he’d become part owner, he’d had a bulkhead removed, combining office space and sleeping quarters into one spacious cabin. The Tylers claimed the remaining two, Aster in one, her father in the other. Although he was hardly ever in town now that he’d been liberated.
Idly massaging his aching limb, Galen gazed morosely at the woman on his bed. She looked as fragile as eggshells. How the devil had she managed to come all the way from Ireland, with a child, no less, without someone to look after her?
He’d wanted to send for a doctor, but Ila had voted him down.
“The last thing that poor child needs is to wake up to some old man pawing at her. You leave her to me, I’ll see to her. Lordy, if she ain’t skinny as a weed. Looks like she ain’t eat a bite in a year. Not like that young’ un. Now that one’s trouble, you mind my words.”
Galen figured he would mind her words when he had time. Right now, he had to think of a way out of this mess before Aster got back. He’d changed his mind about wanting to turn them over to her. God only knew what she’d do with them. Turn ‘em over to the law as indigents, probably. Dump the pair of them out onto the wharf to take up whatever nefarious trade they were best suited to.
He was in business with the woman, through no fault of his own. That didn’t mean he trusted her out of sight. Aster Tyler ran her end of the business with an iron fist. He’d given in to her in the matter of the girls, the new red carpet, and matching draperies, but he drew the line at fancy dinner cruises and hired entertainment. As long as he ran honest tables, offered good whiskey and fine cigars, his customers could get by on pickled eggs and hot sausages.
But she wasn’t going to tolerate this pair. Not without making demands he wasn’t about to meet. Like it or not, the O’Sullivans were his own personal problem.
The kitchen boy rapped on the door and edged inside with a heavily laden tray. Galen took it from him and set it down, and the kid nearly tripped over his own feet, staring at the woman on the bed.
Galen handed him a coin and backed him out the door, closing it firmly behind him. “Katy,” he said quietly. “Tea’s served.”
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