by Amanda Quick
Near dawn the fever broke. Satisfied that Stanbridge was out of danger, at least for the moment, Amity curled up in the room’s only chair and tried to get some sleep.
Sometime later she awoke with a start. An unfamiliar flash of awareness shivered through her, rattling her nerves. She blinked several times, listening closely in an attempt to identify whatever it was that had roused her from her troubled sleep. All she heard was the low rumble of the Northern Star’s big steam engines.
She unfolded her legs and sat up somewhat stiffly. Stanbridge watched her from the bunk. That was what had awakened her, she realized. She had sensed his gaze.
She was oddly flustered. To cover the awkward moment she fluffed out the folds of her staid, brown traveling gown.
“You are looking much improved, Mr. Stanbridge,” she said.
It was the truth. His eyes were no longer hot with fever, but there was another kind of heat in his expression. It sent a shivery thrill of excitement across the back of her neck.
“I’m glad to know that I appear to have improved.” He shifted position a little on the bunk. His face tightened in pain. “Because I certainly feel like hell.”
She glanced at the medical kit on the dresser. “I’m afraid there is not a lot that I can do for your pain. I am running low on supplies. I have a little morphine left but the effects are short-lived.”
“Save your morphine, thank you. I prefer a clear head. I’m not sure I introduced myself properly. Benedict Stanbridge.”
“Captain Harris advised me of your name. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stanbridge.” She smiled. “Under the circumstances, perhaps not exactly a pleasure but better than the alternative. I am Amity Doncaster.”
“Doncaster?” His very interesting face tightened into a frown of concentration. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
She cleared her throat. “I have written several travel pieces for the Flying Intelligencer. Perhaps you have read one or two of them?”
“Not likely. I never read that rag.”
“I see.” She gave him her coldest smile.
He had the grace to look abashed. “Now I’ve managed to insult you. That is the very last thing I wish to do, believe me.”
She got to her feet. “I’ll ring for the steward. He can assist you with your personal needs while I go back to my own stateroom to freshen up and get some breakfast.”
“Hold on, I know where I’ve heard your name.” Benedict looked pleased with himself. “My sister-in-law mentioned your travel pieces. She is a great fan.”
“I’m delighted to hear that,” Amity said in the same cool tones.
She yanked hard on the bell pull and reminded herself that Benedict was recovering from a nasty wound and therefore could not be held accountable for his poor manners. But the knowledge did not lessen her irritation.
Benedict looked at the satchel she had placed on the dresser.
“That letter I gave to you for safekeeping,” he said. “You still have it?”
“Yes, of course. Shall I get it?”
He considered that question for a few seconds and then shook his head. “No. Leave it there in case—”
“In case of what, Mr. Stanbridge?”
“It’s a long way to New York and I might take a turn for the worse,” he said.
“Unlikely.”
“Nevertheless, I prefer to have a plan in place to deal with such an eventuality.”
She smiled. “I take it that you are a man given to planning for all possibilities?”
He touched the bandage on his side and grimaced. “You see what happens when I fail to plan well. As I was saying, if I fail to make it to New York, I would consider it a great favor if you kept your promise to deliver the letter to my uncle.”
“Cornelius Stanbridge, Ashwick Square. Never fear, I wrote down the address so I won’t forget it. But I assure you it won’t be necessary for me to deliver it. You will recover from your wound, sir, and deliver the letter yourself.”
“If I recover, there will be no need for me to deliver it.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What does that mean?”
“Never mind. Just promise me that you won’t let that satchel out of your sight until I feel strong enough to take care of the letter myself.”
“I give you my word that I will keep the satchel and the letter with me at all times. But I do feel that, given all that has transpired, I am owed some explanation.”
“In return for your promise to guard the letter I give you my word that someday I will explain as much as I can.”
And that was all she was going to get by way of a guarantee that she would one day be told the truth, she concluded.
A knock announced the return of Yates. She hoisted the satchel and crossed the small space to open the door.
“I will look in on you again after breakfast, Mr. Stanbridge,” she said. “Meanwhile, be sure you do nothing to undo my needlework.”
“I’ll be careful. One more thing, Miss Doncaster.”
“What is that?”
“According to the Northern Star’s schedule, we are not due to arrive in New York for another ten days. In addition to the passengers who are already on board, we will no doubt be picking up a few more.”
“Yes. What of it?”
He levered himself partway up on one elbow. Pain tightened the corners of his eyes. “Do not tell anyone else about that letter—not any of the other passengers or any members of the crew. It is vitally important that you not trust anyone who is on board now or who may come aboard between here and New York. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear.” She gripped the doorknob. “I must say, you are certainly a man of mystery, Mr. Stanbridge.”
He sank wearily back down onto the pillows. “Not at all, Miss Doncaster. I’m an engineer.”
Two
The storm at sea was far away but the lightning illuminated the clouds in a fiery radiance. The atmosphere was charged and intoxicating. On a night like this a woman could be forgiven if she believed she could fly, Amity thought.
She stood on the promenade deck, her hands braced on the teak railing, and watched the spectacle with wonder and excitement. Not all of the intense, exhilarating emotions were generated by the storm. It was the man standing beside her who was responsible for most of the thrilling sensations, she thought. Somehow they went together, the night and the man.
“You can feel the energy from here,” she said, laughing a little with the sheer pleasure of it all.
“Yes, you can,” Benedict said.
But he was not watching the storm. He was looking at her.
He rested his hands on the railing, his fingers very close to hers. His wound had closed with no sign of infection, but he still moved with care. She knew he would be stiff and sore for a while. A few days ago, having concluded that he was going to live, he had requested that she return his letter.
She told herself that she was happy to be relieved of the responsibility. But something about the small act of giving him the letter had left her feeling wistful, even a trifle bereft. The task of concealing the letter—knowing that Benedict entrusted her with it—had created a sense of a bond between them, at least on her side.
Now that frail connection had been severed. He no longer needed her. He was swiftly regaining his strength. Tomorrow the Northern Star would dock in New York. Her intuition told her that everything would change in the morning.
“I won’t be traveling back to London with you,” Benedict said. “As soon as we dock tomorrow I must take the train to California.”
She had been prepared for this, she reminded herself. She had known that the interlude on board the ship would end.
“I see,” she said. She paused. “California is a long way from New York.” And even farther from London, she thought.
“Unfortunately, my business takes me there. If all goes well, I won’t be obliged to stay for long.”
“Where will you go after you leave California?” she asked.
“Home to London.”
She did not know what else to say, so she held her tongue.
“I would like very much to call upon you when I return, if I may,” Benedict said.
She could suddenly breathe again. “I would like that. I shall look forward to seeing you again.”
“Amity, I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
“Please don’t say that. I would have done as much for anyone in your situation.”
“I know. It is one of the amazing things about you.”
She knew she was blushing and was grateful for the cover of night. “I am certain that you would have done the same under similar circumstances.”
“You have been forced to take me on faith,” Benedict said, very serious now. “I know that can’t have been easy. Thank you for trusting me.”
She did not respond.
“One day I hope to be able to explain everything to you,” he continued. “Please believe me when I say that it’s best if I don’t tell you the whole story yet.”
“It is your story, sir. You may tell whomever you wish to tell.”
“You deserve the truth.”
“Now that you mention it, I agree with you,” she said.
He smiled at her crisp tone. “I wish I was sailing back to London with you.”
“Do you?”
He put his hand over hers on the railing. For a heartbeat he did not move. She knew that he was waiting to see if she would pull her fingers free of his grasp. She did not move, either.
He caught her hand and turned her slowly around to face him.
“I’m going to miss you, Amity,” he said.
“I will miss you, as well,” she whispered.
He drew her to him and took her mouth with his own.
The kiss was everything she had dreamed it would be and so much more—darkly passionate, utterly thrilling. She put her arms around his neck and parted her lips. His scent captivated her. She breathed him in. A sweet, hot hunger uncoiled deep inside. Fearful of causing him pain, she was careful not to lean too heavily against him even though she wanted to do so; oh, how she wanted to lose herself in the wonder of it all.
He dragged his mouth away from hers and kissed her throat. His hands moved to her waist and then slipped up the bodice of her gown until his fingers rested just beneath the weight of her breasts. The heat and fire on the distant horizon was an extraordinarily perfect backdrop to the fierce emotions that threatened to sweep her away. She gripped Benedict’s shoulders very tightly, seeking promises but knowing she would not get them—not tonight. Tonight was an ending, not a beginning.
Benedict gave a low groan, shifted his mouth back to hers and deepened the kiss. For a timeless moment the world beyond the Northern Star ceased to exist.
Driven by a passion that was unlike anything she had ever experienced, she longed to follow the kiss straight into the heart of the storm, as if there was no tomorrow. But with a low groan, Benedict broke off the embrace, setting her gently but firmly away from him.
“This is not the time or the place,” he said.
His voice was as harsh and as heavily freighted with the steel of his ironclad self-control as it had been the day she found him bleeding in the alley.
“Yes, of course, your wound,” she said quickly, mortified that in the heat of the moment she had forgotten all about his injury. “Forgive me. Did I hurt you?”
His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “My injury is the very last thing on my mind tonight.”
He walked her back to her stateroom and said good night at the door.
In the morning the Northern Star docked in New York. Benedict escorted her off the ship. A short time later he disappeared into a cab—and from her life. He never even bothered to send so much as a telegram from California.
Three
LONDON
Amity blamed herself for failing to realize until too late that there was a man concealed in the shadows of the cab. It was the rain, she concluded. Under most circumstances she would have been far more observant. Traveling abroad, she made it a point to pay strict attention when she found herself in unfamiliar surroundings. But this was London. One did not expect to be kidnapped straight off the street in broad daylight.
True, she had been distracted when she left the lecture hall. She was still fuming because of the countless inaccuracies in Dr. Potter’s lecture on the American West. The man was a benighted fool. He had never so much as set foot outside of England, let alone bothered to read her pieces in the Flying Intelligencer. Potter knew nothing of the West, yet he dared to present himself as an authority on the subject. It had been too much to take sitting down, so of course she had been forced to stand up and raise some serious objections.
That had not gone over well with Potter or his audience. She had been escorted out of the lecture hall by two stout attendants. She had heard the muffled snickers and disapproving sniffs from the crowd. Respectable ladies did not interrupt noted lecturers with the goal of correcting them. Luckily, none of those in the audience were aware of her identity. Really, one had to be so careful in London.
Irritated and eager to escape the dreary summer rain, she had leaped into the first cab that stopped in the street. That proved to be a serious mistake.
She barely had time to register the odd, shuttered windows and the presence of the other occupant before the man wrapped an arm around her neck and hauled her close against his chest. He pressed the tip of a very sharp object to her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he gripped a scalpel in one gloved hand.
“Silence or I’ll slice open your throat before it’s time, little whore. And that would be a pity. I’m so looking forward to photographing you.”
He spoke in a harsh whisper but the accent was unmistakably upper-class. His face was covered by a mask fashioned out of black silk. Openings for his eyes, nose and mouth had been cut into the fabric. He smelled of sweat, spice-scented cigarettes and expensive cologne. She was vaguely aware of the fine-quality wool of his coat because of the way he held her pinned against him.
He moved, reaching out and around her to pull the door shut. The vehicle jolted into motion. She could tell that the carriage was moving at a rapid clip, but with the view through the windows blocked by the heavy wooden shutters she had little sense of direction.
One thing was evident immediately. Her captor was stronger than she was.
She stopped struggling and allowed her arms to go limp. Her right hand rested on the elegant fan attached to the silver chain at her waist.
“What do you want with me?” she asked, striving for a thoroughly indignant and outraged tone of voice.
But she knew the answer. She had known it from the moment she saw the scalpel. She had fallen into the clutches of the fiend the press had labeled the Bridegroom. She struggled to keep her voice cold and assertive. If there was one thing she had learned in her travels, it was that an air of coolheaded self-control was often the most useful defense in a crisis.
“I’m going to take a lovely wedding portrait of you, my sweet little harlot,” the killer crooned.
“You’re welcome to my purse but I must warn you that there is very little of value inside.”
“You think I want your purse, whore? I have no need of your money.”
“Then why are we going through this pointless exercise?” she snapped.
Her insulting tone enraged him.
“Shut your mouth,” he rasped. “I will tell you why I have taken you. I am going to make an example of you, just as I have done with the other women who displayed a similar lack of shame. You will learn the price of your
deception.”
She did not think that it was possible to be any more frightened, but an even more intense wave of terror swept through her at his words. If she did not take some action to free herself, she would not survive the night. And she was quite certain she would only get one chance. She had to plan well.
“I’m afraid you have made a great mistake, sir,” she said, trying to project conviction into the words. “I have deceived no one.”
“You lie very well, Miss Doncaster, but you may save your breath. I know exactly what you are. You are just like the others. You give the outward appearance of feminine purity but underneath the façade you are tainted goods. The rumors of your shameful behavior while abroad reached my ears this past week. I am aware that you seduced Benedict Stanbridge and convinced him that, as a gentleman, he has no choice but to marry you. I am going to save him from the trap you set for him, just as I saved the other gentlemen who were deceived.” The killer traced the blade lightly around her throat, not quite piercing the skin. “Will he be grateful? I wonder.”
“You think to protect Mr. Stanbridge from the likes of me?” she asked. “You are wasting your time. I assure you, Benedict Stanbridge is quite capable of taking care of himself.”
“You think to trap him into marriage.”
“If you feel that strongly about the matter, why don’t you wait until he returns to London? You can inform him of your theories concerning my virtue and allow him to draw his own conclusions.”
“No, Miss Doncaster. Stanbridge will discover the truth about you soon enough. Meanwhile, the Polite World will learn what you are tomorrow morning. Don’t move or I will slit your throat here and now.”
She held herself very still. The tip of the scalpel did not waver. She contemplated the possibility of slipping away from the blade and hurling herself to one side of the seat. But such a maneuver, even if successful, would buy her only a few seconds at most. She would find herself trapped in the corner, her tessen against the scalpel.
