Hell on Wheels: A Loveswept Classic Romance

by Karen Leabo

  Nicholas didn’t know anyone who’d actually seen Lady Anne, let alone met her. Whether she existed or not had been little concern to him. Until now.

  The prospect of the gold fascinated him. Hell, who was he kidding? The entire proposal intrigued him. He’d been away from the sea for two long years. It was time he regained his sea legs and this was the perfect opportunity.

  “I will do it,” he said. And the weight that had settled on his shoulders after his injury shifted.

  Kenmar nodded, his expression unchanging, as if he’d expected no other answer. “Be ready to sail in five days.” He put his glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Now I’m off to the club. Have a good evening, Addison.” And he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Nicholas alone with his newfound trepidation and anxiety. But also with anticipation.

  “Do you find these things as boring as I?”

  His gaze collided with eyes the color of the sea on a clear day, a combination of blue and green. They smiled at him, those eyes. Crinkling at the corners and dancing with merriment.

  Slowly his startled gaze swept over her, taking in shiny black hair piled high. One curled, ebony lock rested seductively on the top of a firm, golden breast encased in an off-white gown.

  With all that dark hair and glowing skin, she reminded him of a Gypsy.

  But what fascinated him the most, what caught his attention more than the curve of her breasts and the bewitching color of her eyes, were the dimples peeking out at him when she smiled.

  The stunning vision held out her hand. “Emmaline Sutherland. And you are?”

  He hesitated. He might disdain society, preferring the open ocean to a stuffy ballroom, but he knew the rules, and one of the biggest was that a lady did not introduce herself to a gentleman. Intrigued, he smiled, bowed over her hand and kissed it.

  “Captain Nicholas Addison.”

  “Well, Captain Addison, why don’t you ask me to dance? Maybe a sarabande will alleviate our boredom.”

  If women didn’t introduce themselves to men, they certainly didn’t ask men to dance. Who was this woman? The fear of making a fool of himself kept his feet rooted to the gleaming wood floor. Would his leg withstand the complicated dance moves? If it didn’t, did he deserve the captain’s position just offered to him?

  He held out his arm for her to take. “Would you prefer a stroll instead?”

  She tilted her head, studying him while his elbow remained crooked for her hand.

  Finally she took his arm. “I’d be delighted.”

  As he guided her through the crush of people, he recalled his brother mentioning something about this ball being held for an Emmaline Sutherland. “So, Miss Sutherland, to what do we owe the honor of this route?”

  She grimaced, her gaze glancing over the dancers. “No honor. Aunt Dorothy will take any excuse to give a ball. I happened to be in town at the moment.”

  “You are not from London?”

  Her hand felt nearly weightless on his arm, yet he was well aware of its warmth beneath her glove.

  “Originally, yes. But I live abroad now and return infrequently. And you, sir? Are you from London?”

  “Yes, but like you, I am rarely here. I’m a sea captain and will set sail in a few days for Boston.” Not completely the truth. He was rarely in town because he preferred the family’s country home, where he didn’t have to encounter pitiful stares and whispers behind his back. If not for Kenmar’s summons, and Sebastian’s plea to attend this ball, Nicholas wouldn’t be here now.

  Miss Sutherland raised an ebony eyebrow. “Boston. How exciting.” Her tone lacked the aforementioned excitement, as if her mind was far away. “And who do you sail for?”

  “Blackwell Shipping.” Pride welled in his chest. Pride that he was once again doing something. Sailing instead of rusticating, as his brother called it. Sailing instead of recuperating. Sailing instead of feeling sorry for himself. “Where do you live, if not in London?” he asked.

  “Barbados.”

  “Barbados?” He turned to look at her.

  Amusement lurked in those curiously colored eyes. “Does that shock you?”

  More like fascinated. While Nicholas was well traveled, he didn’t know many women who were. In fact, he didn’t know any women who were. “No,” he lied.

  “My husband and I own a sugar plantation on the island.”

  Disappointment washed through him at the mention of a husband even though he had no right to his disappointment. It wasn’t as if he was able to pursue a courtship with Miss, or rather, Mrs. Sutherland. He was leaving in five days, after all.

  “And is your husband present tonight?” He glanced around the room, searching for an angry gentleman staring holes in his back.

  “He’s in Barbados overseeing the plantation. He never travels to London.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t see. If he had a wife as beautiful and charming as Emmaline Sutherland, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Definitely not to travel from Barbados to London alone. “Are you frightened traveling alone?”

  A smile touched her lips. “What would I be frightened of?”

  He shrugged, his discussion with Kenmar still fresh in his mind. “Pirates.”

  “Pirates are the things of fairy tales, are they not?”

  “Pirates are a very real threat, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you speaking of a certain lady pirate who attacks ships and eats men?”

  Nicholas chuckled. “Lady Anne they call her.”

  “Ah, yes. Lady Anne,” Emmaline said with a slight smile.

  “I’m afraid tales of her are most likely exaggerated. Especially the man-eating tales.”

  “You don’t believe in Lady Anne?”

  Nicholas hesitated, recognizing the same question he’d asked Kenmar. “I’m afraid not. Sailing is difficult enough for men. It’s not a lifestyle a woman would become accustomed to.”

  “But I sail frequently.”

  He detected a note in her voice warning that he was treading on unstable ground. Yet, a little devil stood on his shoulder and he felt an unholy need to goad this woman. Not a very gentlemanly thing to do, but that what-the-hell attitude took root again.

  “As a passenger. Not as a crewman. The work is strenuous and taxing. Not to mention dangerous.”

  “And you don’t think a woman is able to engage in such dangerous work?” Her voice was tight, her shoulders even tighter.

  He bit back the urge to smile. What a virago this woman was and what fun it would be to debate with her. He’d met very few men, let alone women, he’d had the pleasure to clash verbal swords with.

  “I believe a woman has her place in a man’s world, but not on the sea.”

  Silence stretched between them as they completed a circuit of the room and stopped where they’d started. Mrs. Sutherland looked up at him, seeming to assess him. He was relieved to see she wasn’t angry, merely interested, as if she were studying a bug pinned to a board. Or, better yet, an unknown creature pulled from the sea. Her gaze drew him in, made him think thoughts that were entirely inappropriate.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. She’s married, Addison. You don’t dally with married women.

  She curtsied, although he had the impression the move was less etiquette and more mockery, which delighted him and had him forcing back a smile he was sure she wouldn’t appreciate. “Thank you for alleviating my boredom, kind sir. Your conversation was … enlightening.”

  He bowed, finding it more and more difficult not to smile. She certainly was peeved with him, and he found to his chagrin that he wasn’t at all pleased she was taking leave of his company. He would have liked to debate with her for the rest of the night. But that would be inappropriate. Besides, he was sailing in a few days and had to prepare for it. “My pleasure, Mrs. Sutherland.”

  * * *

  A mere hour later, Emmaline observed Nicholas Addison leave with his brother, the Earl of Claybrook. Both men climbed the stairs, twin specimens of m
asculinity that had every female eye riveted to their wide shoulders and full heads of black-as-sin hair. Neither wore the wigs that were so in fashion. Emmaline had a feeling that others would soon follow in their footsteps, because the two were decidedly delicious looking without them. Each moved with an animal-like grace, although Nicholas had a hitch to his step that had her wondering what happened to him. The limp was his only physical flaw, although she didn’t consider it a flaw, just another fascinating aspect of a man who captivated her attention.

  Inside she was still smiling at their conversation. So, Captain Addison believed sailing too strenuous for women. She couldn’t help herself as she laughed out loud, causing a few heads to turn her way.

  Even though she disagreed with his assessment of females, she thoroughly enjoyed their verbal sparring, but something about him bothered her. Normally she was good at sizing up a man’s character. He’d been interested, but the interest in those deep navy eyes definitely cooled when she mentioned a husband. So he had morals.

  He’d been a gentleman, sincerely concerned for her safety when he spoke of pirates in that smooth-as-velvet voice. Which meant he was caring.

  He firmly believed a woman had no place on the sea, yet he wasn’t harsh about his belief. Merely naïve, as most men were. Unlike most of the gentlemen at the ball, who’d gone soft with drink and too much fine food, she felt his strength in the muscles of his arm, and in his wide shoulders unpadded beneath his coat. He was lean, the bones in his face finely chiseled, the pale skin stretched taut. There was no excess about him, as if he’d gone to hell and back, and the journey had taken everything from him, leaving him with nothing but what he needed to survive.

  There were shadows in his blue eyes, a weariness and deep grief. Yet when he spoke of sailing she glimpsed a man who commanded authority and demanded respect. No doubt he was a very good captain.

  No doubt she had her work cut out for her.

  Kenmar had picked his spy well.

  Read on for an excerpt from Linda Cajio’s

  Unforgettable

  One

  He was perfect.

  Anne Kitteridge forced the army of sensual butterflies in her stomach to calm as she watched the man on the sleek polo pony. The polo game had been fast and furious for three quarters, and despite the cool spring day, his white knit shirt was plastered to his body, outlining every muscle of his shoulders and back. They led into a flat waist and narrow hips. Strong thighs bulged as he gripped the sides of the galloping bay gelding. The strength in his arms was obvious, and she had an unwanted urge to feel them around her in a tight embrace. Intent on the ball, he kept his lean six-foot frame crouched low on the animal’s shoulders. She knew the polo helmet hid thick, light brown hair, vivid green eyes, a Robert Redford jaw, and a Cary Grant smile.

  He rode hard past her on a drive to the goal, and she drew in her breath when he rose out of the saddle to hit the ball. He had a perfect backside too.

  If only she hadn’t seen James Farraday on a horse, she thought, sighing. He was thirty-five, single, and from one of Philadelphia’s foremost families. Playboy material. She had known him all her life, although she had seen him only occasionally since her return from California five years before. She went out of her way to keep their meetings to a minimum. But his grandmother and hers were close friends, and when she and James were children, the families had hoped they would marry someday.…

  Anne swallowed. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of that in years. Not since she was seventeen when she had made a fool of herself with him. Then she’d proceeded to make a mess of her life. She was all grown up now—grown up and grown sensible.

  It was just the horses, she told herself. Horses were her territory, after all. She had been riding since she could walk; she’d even ridden for a time as a professional jockey. Now she bred race horses for a living. Somehow, though, she hadn’t quite connected that an ability to play polo meant an ability with horses. She knew all too well that at this moment James’s senses were filled with pounding hooves, musky sweat, and hot leather. She knew he was moving with the horse in that unique, almost telepathic affinity between man and equine. She knew his brain and body were absorbed in nature, racing toward contented exhaustion. A throbbing started deep within her and radiated outward until she felt as if she were melding with him on the animal—urging him forward, harder and faster…

  As if he had sensed her thoughts, James glanced around at the spectators crowding the sidelines of the Westgate Country Club’s charity polo match. She instantly turned away before his gaze found hers, mortified that she might have somehow signaled her reaction to him.

  She reminded herself she had an intense distrust of “perfection.” And for her own good, it had to stay that way. Really, she thought in disgust, she was a thirty-one-year-old single mother and businesswoman. Much too old for such a silly adolescent reaction to a man.

  This was the first and last time her grandmother would talk her into attending a tailgate party/polo game, Anne decided. Usually she was more resistant to the social functions Lettice wanted her to attend, but she hadn’t been to one for a while. This one had horses, and she’d allowed Lettice to prevail. Horses … and James. She slipped her arms out of her collarless green tweed jacket. Funny, she mused, how the March day turned quite warm suddenly. Her yellow linen shirtwaist even seemed too heavy.

  Across the small table from her, Lettice Kitteridge lowered her binoculars and smiled with satisfaction. “James is in top form. Very top form.”

  Lord, Anne thought with amusement. He even had her grandmother drooling. No mean feat, if one knew Lettice. But James probably had every woman there panting. He usually did.

  She glanced over at the furious play farther down the field, then shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. At least she could show a natural interest in the other players.

  “He’s got a wonderful horse,” she said, pleased with her casual tone. Her insides were still pulsing with heat. “His string of ponies is magnificent.”

  Lettice fixed her granddaughter with what was known in the family as the “regal” eye.

  “Bull,” Lettice said, rapping the table with her hand. The discarded luncheon china and crystal rattled in response. “And who sighed when he rode past? A totally feminine sigh that had nothing to do with horses, I might add.”

  Anne cursed under her breath at her grandmother’s acute hearing. She glared back in defiance and lied. “How would I know?”

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” Lettice said. “And it certainly wasn’t Philip.”

  Anne turned around and looked at her nine-year-old son, perched on the back end of her Jeep, parked behind them. His small body was tense and still as he watched the game. Clearly, he was enraptured.

  “Are you sure it was a female sigh?” Anne asked, grinning.

  Lettice glanced at the boy, then smiled reluctantly. “Yes, I’m sure, but I won’t argue the point.”

  “For once,” Anne muttered.

  “I doubt you’ll admit to it anyway,” Lettice added. “I do wish, though, you hadn’t been so stubborn about marrying James.”

  Anne jerked at the sound of her deepest thoughts coming blithely from her grandmother’s lips. So much for a change of subject. She was determined to hold her patience with Lettice, however. The game was almost over, and she could go home to the safety of Makefield Meadows, her stud farm outside Washington’s Crossing, released finally from this torture. Still, she couldn’t allow Lettice to harbor such a dangerous notion.

  “Grandmother, there was nothing to be stubborn about—”

  “You two were a perfect match,” Lettice went on, oblivious. “I’ve always thought so. I have never understood why you just couldn’t give things a chance.”

  “Help me, Lord,” Anne murmured. A “perfect match” was the last thing she and James would ever be. She’d had one disastrous match with a Hollywood producer who had also owned horses. After that experience she wasn’t about to go for two. Besides
, James had made his feelings for her all too clear many years ago.

  She shrugged again, trying to seem uninterested. “Since our families are friendly, I’m sure you all thought it would have been nice. But I’m not very … conventional, Grandmother. Or acceptable. You know that.”

  “Ridiculous,” Lettice said. “You’re a Kitteridge.”

  Anne smiled at her grandmother’s pronouncement. As a child she’d overheard too many catty comments about her father marrying his secretary not to know differently. Being a Kitteridge hadn’t made her mother “acceptable.” Fortunately, her parents hadn’t cared. They just went happily along continuing to publish The World, her father’s travel magazine. Unfortunately, their daughter had always felt a little like an outcast.

  “Still,” Lettice continued, obviously finding an opening, “why you ever insisted on becoming a professional jockey, or marrying that bas—”

  “Grandmother,” Anne warned, glancing at Philip. Although she thoroughly agreed with her grandmother’s opinion of her ex-husband, Ellis Crawford, she didn’t want it said in front of her son. Philip’s hearing aid picked up more than people thought. But she needn’t have worried. Philip was in pololand.

  “Well, now you breed horses,” Lettice said, changing gears slightly. “Unfortunately, you won’t do it from a desk as others do.”

  “It’s no fun that way,” Anne said, grinning. She sobered and added, “It took me a long time to accept that I’ll never fit in with this.” She waved a hand at the picnickers enjoying the Sport of Princes. “I’ll never be Ellen. She was born with the silver spoon. I wasn’t. I like who I am, and I like what I do. I’m sorry if that disappoints you, Grandmother.”

  Lettice harrumphed. “You have never disappointed me, child. It’s just that you seem to be deliberately eccentric. But you are more like Ellen than you know.…”

  Anne laughed. Her cousin was beautiful, always poised and elegant. She had no illusions about herself, however.