A Match of Wits

by Jen Turano

  “Someone evidently figured it out, since threats started showing up at your New York residence.” Mr. Blackheart looked over her shoulder. “Ah, here comes the waiter. I suppose this lovely conversation we’re having will have to come to an end, and just when I was beginning to enjoy myself immensely.”

  “May I show you to a table for two?” the waiter asked with a glare at Agatha.

  “I think everyone might be blaming me for Matilda’s fate,” she muttered. “Which means it might not be a good idea for me to eat here.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Blackheart replied. “No one blames you for Matilda’s fate. And just so we’re clear, we’re not going to rush in and save her.”

  He looked at the waiter and scowled. “I expect Miss Watson to be served a delicious meal, without a side of guilt, if you please, but since I won’t be joining her, she’ll only need a table for one. I need to ascertain no other farm animals will be showing up in her room and check on Mrs. Swanson, who seems to be suffering from the altitude, but do know that I will be stopping by every so often to make sure Miss Watson is staying out of trouble.”

  The waiter turned pale and nodded.

  “There’s no need to intimidate the poor man, Mr. Blackheart. And if you’re so concerned about my getting into trouble, perhaps you should join me.”

  “While that does sound truly enjoyable, I prefer to dine alone . . . in my room, after I get you settled for the night.” He turned around and strode away, leaving her standing beside the waiter, who was looking a little sulky.

  “I wouldn’t mind a table by the window,” she finally said.

  A minute later, she wasn’t sitting at a table by the window or even at a table in the dining room. Instead, she was squished into a less-than-comfortable seat in a darkened corner of what appeared to be the hotel’s pub. She looked around, delighted that the waiter had left her in a much more interesting spot than the dining room—not that he probably intended that result.

  When her gaze settled on what appeared to be a mountain man sitting at the bar, her delight increased. Two ladies were sitting on either side of him with another leaning across the bar, all three ladies giving the man their undivided attention as they laughed uproariously over something he’d just said.

  Her writer instincts kicked in.

  Why would a man who was garbed in ratty old clothing and certainly hadn’t seen a barber in the recent past attract the attention of ladies, and what was he doing in a reputable hotel?

  A panicked squeal immediately distracted her from the mountain man. Leaning forward, she peered through an open door and watched as little Matilda scurried into view, running as fast as her stumpy legs would allow, with Mr. Farrington’s yells sounding in the distance.

  The sight of the obviously frantic pig caused Agatha’s stomach to clench, and she simply couldn’t sit idly by and watch what she knew was about to happen. “Matilda, over here,” she called, and the pig barreled rapidly in her direction. Not giving herself a moment to think through what she was about to do, she hitched up her skirt. Matilda needed no other encouragement to scurry underneath it. She’d just managed to drop her skirt into place when Mr. Farrington darted into the room. Picking up a menu from the table, she breathed a sigh of relief when he rushed past her.

  The question that remained was how to proceed?

  The decision was made for her when Matilda plopped her solid body down on Agatha’s shoes and seemed to settle in for the duration. Trying to shift in her seat, but finding that next to impossible with a pig lounging on her feet, Agatha ducked her head under the table. “Would it be possible for you to move just the tiniest bit, because . . .” Her words died in her throat when the sound of a gentleman’s voice unexpectedly captured her attention.

  “We need another round over here when you get a minute.”

  Lifting her head, she winced when she hit it against the edge of the table. She knew that voice as well as she knew her own, but . . . it made no sense.

  Zayne Beckett would have no reason to be in Colorado Springs. He was supposed to be happily married by now and living with his lovely if overly delicate wife, Helena, in California.

  Rubbing the sore spot on her head, she glanced around, breathing a sigh of relief when none of the gentlemen sitting at the other tables turned out to be Zayne. The only gentleman whose face she couldn’t see was that of the mountain man, but he certainly wasn’t cause for concern. Zayne had always been a meticulous dresser, something that couldn’t be said for the man hunched over the bar. That man was dressed in a jacket covered with bits of what looked like dirt and leaves, his boots were caked with mud, and there was a ratty old cane perched by his side, giving testimony to the fact that he probably was not in the best of health. He also possessed a headful of matted and incredibly long dark hair, while Zayne’s hair had always been perfectly groomed, except for the occasional times she’d gotten him involved in something . . . messy.

  Forcing her attention back to the menu, she perused her options, wondering if she should choose the buffalo soup or . . .

  “Ladies, after this drink, I’m calling it a night,” the man at the bar proclaimed. His words sounded just the tiniest bit slurred, but . . . he sounded exactly like Zayne.

  He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, which he promptly thrust at the employee tending the bar. “Here’s to settle the bill, and keep the change for your efforts,”

  The money certainly explained the ladies surrounding him, but she was at a loss as to why the man sounded so eerily like Zayne.

  Curiosity kept her watching the man. He lifted his arm, tilted his head back, and downed a glass of what appeared to be whiskey in one gulp. Releasing a loud belch, he turned.

  All the breath squeezed out of Agatha’s lungs as her gaze met his. She wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for his eyes, but those eyes were something Agatha had never been able to forget. They were a distinctive shade of green, much like the grass in springtime, and they were usually filled with mischief.

  But there was no mischief in the eyes currently narrowed on her.

  Mr. Zayne Beckett stared at her for what seemed like forever, and then he smiled a lopsided smile. “Aggie.”

  He’d never once, in all the time she’d known him, called her Aggie.

  Before she could summon up a single word of response, he lurched off the stool, his leg seemed to give out, and Zayne Beckett—the one gentleman who plagued her thoughts on an almost daily basis—plummeted to the ground even as his eyes rolled back in his head, and a cloud of dirt puffed up from his clothing.

  2

  Something strange swept over Zayne’s face, and oddly enough, it felt remarkably like a tickle. When he turned his head into the pillow, the tickling went away, but then something rough and wet began assaulting his ear, and alarm coursed through him.

  The thought came that the prudent action would be to open his eyes in order to see who or what was assaulting his ear, but he immediately disregarded that idea. If he opened his eyes, he’d wake up for good, and it was always so depressing to face another day, always so very disappointing.

  Deciding he was probably imagining—the imagining brought on no doubt by the whiskey he’d taken to enjoying a little too much—he began counting sheep in the hope of going back to sleep. Unfortunately, his counting was interrupted by the distinct sound of snuffling.

  Stiffening, he realized he was not imagining anything and sorted through his jumbled thoughts to come up with a plausible explanation as to what could possibly be snuffling in his ear.

  Surely one of the women he vaguely remembered talking with at the pub hadn’t followed him back to his room, and if one had, was it a normal occurrence for women to grunt in that particular fashion?

  Knowing there was no help for it, he forced his eyes open and found himself staring up at two moist holes.

  It was a rather peculiar thing to see.

  The two holes lifted, and he blinked and then blinked ag
ain when a pink tongue began edging ever closer until it made contact with his mouth.

  “Ugh,” he yelled before he began flailing around on the bed, trying to escape the covers that were holding him hostage.

  He rolled over and slipped off the bed, landing with a loud woof on the hard floor, his fall knocking the breath from him.

  “Ah, lovely. I see you’ve finally decided to rejoin the living.”

  He heard the sound of heels tapping across the floor, and then the hem of a lady’s dress came into view. Lifting his gaze, recognition mixed with disbelief caused his mouth to drop open.

  Miss Agatha Watson was standing above him, there in the midst of his hotel room, smiling down at him, but . . . that couldn’t be right. He obviously really was imaging things. Agatha would have no reason to be in Colorado. Everything she held near and dear was back in New York. He forced his mouth shut, shook his head, and then peered through gritty eyes at the woman who, strangely enough, hadn’t disappeared.

  It really was Agatha, and she looked . . . wonderful. Her inky-black hair was caught up in some kind of twist on her head, but curly strands of it had escaped her pins—something he clearly remembered them doing frequently in the past. Agatha had always been a lady in perpetual motion, that motion causing her hair and clothing to occasionally be in disarray, not that she’d ever been concerned about that. She’d once told him there were too many adventures waiting for her to take time lingering over her appearance, but even in disarray, she’d always looked lovely.

  “What are you doing here?” he finally asked, wincing when her smile disappeared to be replaced with a frown.

  “That’s how you greet me after we haven’t seen each other in two years?”

  His head began throbbing from the loudness of her voice, but before he could ask her to keep it down, he caught sight of something pink flying through the air. That something landed squarely on his chest and began to squeal, causing the throbbing in his head to intensify. All the breath left him again when the creature began prancing around on top of his body. Nausea, brought on by the prancing, and probably also from the large amount of whiskey he’d indulged in the night before, had a moan slipping out. “I could use a little help here,” he managed to mutter, praying he wasn’t about to get sick all over the floor.

  “Matilda, enough,” Agatha said with a snap of her fingers, which had the animal scurrying off him and scampering to her side. She tilted her head. “You’re looking a bit green.”

  Struggling into a sitting position, he pressed a hand against his stomach. “And you find that surprising, given the manner in which I’ve been woken?” He narrowed his eyes. “Is that a pig?”

  The animal disappeared underneath Agatha’s skirt.

  “Yes, she is, but Matilda doesn’t care for that particular word.”

  “Huh, interesting, but what’s it doing in my room?”

  “I let her in.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “It’s nearly noon.”

  Zayne lifted a hand and rubbed at the throbbing in his head that was steadily growing. “May I assume you decided it was past time I woke up?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why didn’t you just wake me up, and how did you get the key to my room, and . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been up since six and I’ve tried numerous times to wake you, but you wouldn’t budge.” Agatha sighed. “I even took to singing, quite loudly at that, and you must recall, even if it has been over two years since we’ve spoken, that I don’t exactly sing well, but even my attempts at a song didn’t have you stirring.”

  “So you sent a pig to do the job?”

  “Patience has never been one of my virtues, Zayne. I thought it would be interesting to see what would happen if I set Matilda on you.”

  “She almost gave me a heart attack, and I’m bound to have bruises on my backside from falling to the floor.” He struggled to sit up straighter. “It was hardly friendly of you to sic your pig on me.”

  Giving a dainty shrug, Agatha began strolling around the room, until she stumbled to a stop. Peering down, she lifted her skirt a few inches and grinned. “I beg your pardon, Matilda. I forgot you were under there.” She dropped the skirt back into place, covering the pig. “I do hope my little darling doesn’t get a stomach upset from gnawing on that mess you’ve got covering your face. You might be offended by what I’m about to say, but you look like you have a porcupine hanging from your cheeks.”

  “It’s a beard and I’ve been told it lends me a distinguished appearance.”

  “Distinguished compared to what?”

  Seeing absolutely no point in continuing the conversation, Zayne summoned up what he hoped was a credible scowl. “Getting back to your pig, why did you allow her to gnaw on me? I thought we were friends.”

  “Friends don’t ignore one another for years, Zayne, and I didn’t know Matilda was gnawing on you at first, not until she gagged. Do be careful though with calling her a P-I-G. She’s remarkably sensitive and intelligent but does seem prone to sulking.”

  “How in the world did you come into possession of a sulking, er, Matilda?”

  “Quite by accident, I assure you. I rescued her yesterday from an unpleasant fate, but she’s a charming creature, even if she does have a strong aversion to men.”

  “And yet you put her in bed with me.”

  “Hmm, so I did.”

  His lips tugged into a reluctant smile. Agatha had been one of his closest friends before he’d moved out west, and she’d always been different. She was strong-willed, independent, and perpetually getting herself into trouble, but . . . he’d missed her. He just hadn’t realized that until now.

  “What are you doing in Colorado?” he finally asked.

  Giving an airy wave of her hand, Agatha moved closer to him, her steps hampered by the pig still underneath her skirt. She wobbled to a halt right beside him. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss me and what I’ve been up to of late, but I think it’s more important right now to talk about you. You’re a mess.”

  “I see you haven’t abandoned your preference for getting straight to the point.”

  “Saves time.” Agatha hitched up her skirt again. “You’re going to have to come out now, Matilda. I’m feeling the need to have a bit of a chat with Zayne. It’s probably going to turn into a lengthy chat, which means I’ll need to get comfortable.”

  Zayne watched as Matilda scooted out from underneath the skirt and hurried to hide behind a chair.

  “She obviously knows you’re about to interrogate me,” he said right as Agatha plopped down beside him and rolled her eyes.

  “Interrogating sounds menacing, Zayne. I’m simply going to ask you a few questions.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  Leaning forward, Agatha patted his leg, his bad leg, causing him to wince. Her patting came to a rapid end.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I distinctly saw you grimace.”

  “You claimed I have a porcupine on my face, which I’m fairly certain makes it next to impossible for you to notice me grimacing.”

  “A valid point, but if I did hurt you, I’m sorry.”

  Zayne felt his teeth clink together. “I’m fine.”

  Looking him over with blue eyes that saw entirely too much, Agatha’s lips thinned. “Clearly, you’re not, which begs the question of what happened to you?”

  “Nothing that you need to concern yourself with. It’s a long and dreary story, and I don’t really care to talk about it, especially not before breakfast.”

  “We are long past breakfast, but I’ll go get you some eggs.”

  “Now that I think about it, I’m not very hungry.”

  “Suit yourself, but you must know I’m not going anywhere until you give me some answers.”

  The two years they’d been apart disappeared in a flash, and Zayne felt as if he were once again back in New York with Agatha being h
er usual tenacious, nagging self. The memories came rapidly—one with her being held behind bars, another with her insisting he dress in a gown to travel to an opium den, along with convincing him to shave all the hair from his chest.

  His lips began to curve until he also remembered that Agatha truly wasn’t one to let her questions go unanswered, but he, unfortunately, was in no state to engage in any type of bantering with her. His thoughts were jumbled from having had too much whiskey the night before, his mouth was parched, and dealing with Agatha could leave even the most clear-thinking gentleman a bit bemused. There was no way in his current state he’d even be able to keep up with her rapid train of thought. He rubbed his temple and peered around the room, stalling for time.

  “Can you tell me how I came to be here?”

  “Are we talking about how you came to be in Colorado or how you came to be in your room?”

  “I know how I got to Colorado, but I have no idea how I got to my room last night.”

  Agatha’s nose wrinkled. “You really don’t remember?”

  “The last moment I remember was sitting at the bar last night, having a drink.”

  “I think we can both agree you had more than one drink.”

  Zayne tilted his head. “Were you there?”

  “I was, but I wasn’t sitting with you. You were surrounded by three ladies who seemed to find you absolutely fascinating, even given the fact you were looking rather, well . . . we’ll get into that later. As I was saying, you were conversing rather enthusiastically with these women before you proclaimed in a very loud and, I must add, slurred voice, that you were alling it a night. You got up from your stool, saw me, called me Aggie, which I’m going to encourage you never to do again, and then promptly passed out.” She shook her head. “It was not one of your finer moments.”

  “I must have passed out over the shock of seeing you after all this time.”

  Agatha placed her hand over his. “You know that’s not what happened.”

  The heat from her skin sent real shock traveling up his arm.

  He’d always refused to acknowledge the fact Agatha had the ability to do peculiar things to his pulse, his heart, his . . . No, he would not dwell on that.