He spun on his heel and strode off at a very fast pace, so that she was compelled to almost run to keep pace. She opened her mouth to insist that she could move much more easily if he wasn’t holding her—even if she wouldn’t have been as warm.
Around them, the slum’s sounds were slowly returning to their earlier discord—men calling for whisky, women offering themselves to men…
Booted footsteps pounded along the railroad tracks toward them.
Grainger simply swept her up in his arms, carpetbag included, and ran.
Chapter Four
Grainger reached a broad thoroughfare and turned to run along the boardwalk edging it, still carrying her. The street’s greater width brought a frigid cold winter wind whipping along its length up from the river and driving off any casual spectators. He passed far more respectable saloons and stores, marked by barrels, crates, and stools glimpsed in snatches of lamplight.
Rachel put her arm up around his neck and nearly yanked it away when his strong shoulders and neck provided a corded nest, instead of knife-edged fragility. She’d nursed Elias for years. She knew what a man felt like—the cleanly defined bones and sinew of his collarbone and neck, which her hand could easily close around. But Grainger was different, warmly alive even through his snow-covered coat, as if his skin exhorted her fingers to seek his bare skin out. To undress him…
Her pulse began to beat more strongly.
“I can run,” she gasped and desperately tried not to jerk away.
“Not yet.” He didn’t even sound winded. If anything, he was reading the storefront signs as they went past.
A tall man with dark hair touched by silver at the temples and his buffalo coat casually hanging off his shoulders, sauntered out of an alley a block ahead of them, jauntily whistling Rossini’s overture to “The Barber of Seville.” Perhaps he could help her and Grainger, instead of indulging in such a bravura performance.
The hated voices came harsh and fast just behind them. “There they are, boys! Don’t shoot ’em; we need her alive.”
She spared a glance over Grainger’s shoulder and flinched. Collins’s thugs were only a few paces back.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the dark-haired man fell silent and raced for the saloon before them, a gaudy corner establishment.
The poltroon. Why didn’t he sound the alarm and bring the law to help them?
Grainger dashed through another frozen intersection and leaped to a stretch of boardwalk. He halted in front of the corner saloon that the other man had disappeared into. There he set Rachel down, placing her behind him. “Whatever happens, stay close. Understand?”
She gulped. More violence? But she’d fought her way clear of Maitland and could hardly balk at an honorable man’s defense of her. She stiffened her knees, which seemed to be trying to turn into jelly. “Yes, of course.”
She peered around his arm to watch.
Four of Collins’s thugs came thundering down the boardwalk and paused, their pea jackets and thick woolen caps clearly marking them as having come from a seaport. One of them chuckled, then another and another.
Rachel shivered but stayed where she was, pressed tight against Grainger’s back. Why on earth was a small voice in the back of her head whispering that she might want to explore the stalwart masculine body next to her? The broad shoulders, the trim waist and hips, the strong legs.
Oh dear Lord, they were so close that she could feel every breath he took as if it were her own, resonating through her skin and into her lungs. She shivered but not from the cold. Grainger cocked his head toward her but said nothing. His arms moved slightly, flexing in his coat. Oh Lord, there was going to be gunplay and he might be hurt…
There had to be something she could do to help. She glanced around desperately, but there was nothing there. Only benches and barrels and the great troughs that would water horses in better weather. Surely there had to be something she could at least throw. Then she spied a broom, propped against a bench only two steps away.
She smiled a little grimly. She might not know how to use a revolver but she could wield a broom—and had done so before against impertinent males, albeit of the schoolroom type. She’d grab it if she needed to.
The leader lifted his hand and the brutes fanned out across the street, settling into a pattern which would allow them to charge Grainger despite the boardwalk’s railings. When they’d blocked every exit except for ducking into the saloon, the leader paced back and forth in front of the steps up to the boardwalk, all the while watching his intended prey, clearly emphasizing how neatly Grainger—and Rachel—were trapped.
“Leave now if you want to keep your skin intact,” Grainger ordered calmly.
The thugs’ leader hooted. A beam of light from the saloon caught his face, showing where half of his ear had been ripped away in a dockside brawl.
Rachel shuddered, recognizing him immediately. Holloway, the nastiest of Collins’s men—who’d delighted in terrorizing her maids back in Boston.
He chuckled. “Did you hear that, lads? One against four and he’s telling us to run?”
They laughed evilly and drew closer.
Grainger flexed his shoulders, as if preparing to move quickly.
“Now listen to me, mister,” Holloway barked, stepping off his stretch of boardwalk.
Rachel whispered a silent prayer under her breath. She shifted her weight to her other foot, preparing to make a single frantic lunge for that broom.
Grainger’s hand promptly slid behind his back to block any move in that direction.
She froze, wondering how he’d known her intention when she hadn’t taken a step. Never mind; should the ruffians charge him, she could still lunge for her own weapon.
“You’ll hand her over now and you’ll do so fast,” Holloway demanded. “Otherwise, we’ll carve you into scrimshaw while she watches. And it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of you, would it, to put a nice lady like her through that?”
Grainger snarled, deep in his throat. “If you had any decency, you’d leave now and spare her the sight of bloodshed.”
Holloway roared with laughter. “You idiot, we’re going to kill you!”
Suddenly the saloon doors burst open and the heavily dressed man raced out, followed by a dozen others. They took up a station behind and flanking Grainger and Rachel, their cudgels, knives, and pistols prominently displayed. With loud screeches of overtaxed window sashes, other men pushed open the saloon’s upstairs windows and cocked their firearms. All of them were yelling, “Donovan! Donovan!”
Grainger joined in the war cry, his deep voice rumbling through his back and into her bones.
It made a most infernal—and very welcome—ruckus.
Rachel gulped and began to grin. It would seem that Grainger could find friends and allies in the most unprepossessing surroundings.
The shouting finally died down and she dared to look around. Holloway was visibly furious, but still standing in the same place, his men gathered closely around him. “Gentlemen,” he said sweetly, his angry expression at complete odds with his tone, “surely there’s no need for a brawl in such cold weather. Let us be friends and say no more tonight.”
Grainger glanced down at her. “Satisfied?”
Rachel tried to pull her wits together. Doing so would provide the opportunity to tell Grainger about the danger to William Donovan. There’d still be a threat to her from Collins, but only a husband could end that. She nodded, a bit too emphatically.
“Depart,” Grainger ordered curtly.
The thugs retreated a block, every step taken grudgingly under the equally watchful eyes of Grainger’s friends. Just before Collins’s thugs returned to the slums, Holloway turned back. “Collins will take her back—and you’ll be sorry you interfered!”
“You’ll be dead if that happens,” Grainger retorted in a tone so flat it sent shivers down Rachel’s spine. It seemed more prophecy than threat.
Holloway made a single rude gesture and was gone. The
dark-haired fellow and another man warily followed them.
Rachel’s knees gave out and her vision grayed. She started to sag, faint with relief at being safe for the moment. The last thing she saw was Grainger whirling around to catch her.
Lucas laid Rachel Davis down on the settee in the Empress’s drawing room. A moment’s work saw her bonnet removed and set aside, together with her carpetbag. Those bastards, to reduce her to running through slums with so little!
He shifted her gently and eased her long cape off.
He stared at the hapless beauty before him, wanting to throw a brandy snifter against the wall.
How the hell was he to deal with her?
Of average height with slim, sweet curves, she reposed on the settee like a fantasy from his oldest dreams. Her features were as delicately etched as any Roman cameo, making her every man’s dream of womanly perfection.
Rachel was his only female friend; God knew any conversation with his sister Hortense was best confined to recitations of her social engagements. Rachel also trusted him as a friend, as evidenced by years of correspondence on subjects ranging from politics to flowers.
At least she was breathing steadily, albeit shallowly. Her pulse was fast, her color pale, against the deep blue upholstery.
Cursing the thugs who’d reduced her to this, he unbuttoned her tunic—moving quickly and surely down her front and careful to keep his fingers from lingering too long in any one spot.
The poor darling had been chased by ruffians who wanted to kidnap her and haul her back to an obviously appalling hell, which had almost certainly been created by Albert Collins.
At least he was almost certain the bloodstains on her dress weren’t hers. But when he thought of what she must have been through…
He growled automatically, his fingers tightening in her cape. Its fine wool snagged under his callused fingers, a mute reminder of her quality. He smoothed it out—easing her clothing as he could not soothe her now unconscious mind—and stood up.
She still hadn’t moved, except to take those barely perceptible breaths.
He dragged himself away and carefully draped her cloak over a sitting chair to dry.
If he’d been at an assignation with her, he’d hang up her cloak exactly the same way. But when he’d turn back to her, she wouldn’t flutter—no, those golden eyes would be warm with welcome and eagerness for the coming hours.
His heart immediately skidded into a faster beat. He flung his hands out, snarling at his unruly flesh. Dammit, when would his body learn that she, like every other respectable woman, was not for him?
He shrugged off his coat, dropping it on the nearest chair, and skimmed his hat onto an upper rack.
Lucas paced as best he could in the confined aisle, reminding himself that he needed to have himself under control before Braden appeared.
She drew a shuddering breath.
He spun on his heel to look at her—but before he could reach her side, she fell silent again. Surely her color was a trifle better?
For her sake, he must be the complete gentleman. Mrs. Elias Davis deserved the utmost consideration and chivalry from every man who saw her, starting with himself. He’d warn the Donovan & Sons’ men, although he doubted they’d need the words. As frontiersmen, their respect for good women was bone deep.
He shoved a hand through his hair, forcing the heavy mane back.
No, the difficulty was likely to be his. He needed to keep telling himself that she was off-limits as his former commander’s widow, as she’d been since he met her at their wedding.
Not that he’d ever flirted with a woman of his own class, of course. But it was so damned easy to be enticed by glossy chestnut hair and clear amber eyes, wide-set under winged eyebrows that looked a man straight in the face and smiled without simpering. Lord, how he’d envied Davis!
Her marriage had been difficult, with Davis an invalid. Having Collins as her trustee must have been like passing through the nine circles of hell. Well, he’d make sure that bastard never got his hands on her again.
His patience shredded further. Maybe strong coffee would help her.
He spun and strode toward the kitchen, his heavy boots striking solidly through the carpet.
Mrs. Davis moaned and flung her arm up over her eyes.
Lucas immediately came to a stop beside her, cursing his impatience for disturbing her. “Mrs. Davis?”
Rachel shifted again against the tufted, velvet upholstery, trying to understand where she was. Collins’s hired Pullman didn’t have finely upholstered furniture like this, without any spikes and sags in the horsehair stuffing. Collins’s Pullman’s gas lighting had eternally fizzed and sparked, telltale signs of dirty lines and lamps, yet another scar from hard use by multiple previous renters.
But the Empress, as an engraved brass plate above the door proclaimed her, had all the elegance of a rich man’s private library. Elias and his father would have exclaimed over the superb Circassian walnut used for the woodwork. It was heavily carved, of course, but in a Georgian style which was far simpler than what she would have expected to find on a legendary family’s conveyance. The curtains were deep blue, as was the upholstery, with a superb Brussels carpet covering the floor. Settees were scattered between big, comfortable sitting chairs, while spittoons and small tables were regularly placed for guests’ convenience. Brilliantly polished lamps hung from the ceiling, casting a golden glow over the scene.
In all too many ways, the Empress was more attractive to her than Anglesey Hall, Elias’s home, had ever been.
“Mrs. Davis?” the deep, kind voice asked again. Definitely not Collins or Maitland.
She turned her head and looked directly at her companion, rather than the walls and ceiling. “Mr. Grainger?”
He smiled at her, his harshly masculine features almost cracking in the attempt to be gentle. He was crouching beside her hip, careful not to crowd her. His blue-green eyes truly did look remarkably like jewels from this close. “How do you feel? Are you hurt anywhere, Mrs. Davis?”
“Hurt? Why, no, I don’t think so, Mr. Grainger. A little tired perhaps.” She tried to sit up, struggling against the awkwardness of her position and her clothing. A full bustle and train didn’t help. In fact, the effort made her want to curse—or cry. Or do anything that would return her to her old, simple life back in Boston before she’d married Elias.
Flexing his fingers and shifting slightly on his feet, Grainger stood by for a few moments before speaking again. “May I help you, Mrs. Davis?”
Rachel gulped back the foolish, threatening tears. Surely she’d do better, if she was given just a little more time to recover. “Thank you.”
He scooped her up in his arms—didn’t he believe in ever allowing a lady to stand on her own two feet?—and quickly, efficiently tweaked her heavy hoops and bustle into a neat ripple, not an untidy jumble. Then he rearranged her skirts into a smooth waterfall over the settee. Finally he settled her into a half-sitting, half-reclining position, comfortably supported against the settee’s arm.
Grainger stood back to study his handiwork. “Are you comfortable now?”
She sighed, recognizing that he had done a better job than she could have, given her unsteadiness. She was so tired that she was simply grateful for his expertise, instead of curious as to how he’d acquired it. “Yes, thank you.”
“Would you care for some coffee? There’s always a fresh pot of that available. Or Braden, my steward, can brew you some tea.”
Rachel flinched, picturing a proper tea tray with its lemon wedges and lemon fork. “No!”
Grainger’s eyes narrowed, his expression immediately turning deeply concerned. “No?”
She gathered herself, reaching for self-discipline. She didn’t have to jump at shadows, not here, not in Grainger’s private Pullman. “I mean, it’s hardly necessary for your steward to make anything special for me. Coffee will do very well, thank you.”
He searched her face for a moment before he n
odded. “Good. I’ll ask him to bring something to eat, too. I didn’t have a chance to dine earlier this evening. Perhaps you’d care to join me.”
Agreement was easier to this suggestion. Surely her present shakiness was due as much to the lack of a good meal, as it was to the stresses of the past hour.
Grainger departed down the aisle toward the kitchen, in the easy, narrow-hipped glide of an expert horseman. The sitting chairs framed him perfectly—the broad shoulders, roped in muscle, that could barely squeeze between them. The powerful legs that had made such quick work of racing up that hill in the freezing cold—and now looked capable of dancing all night.
Or slipping into a lady’s boudoir, whispered her treacherous loins.
She blinked, completely taken aback by the dangerous surge of heat floating through her. It had been years since she’d looked at a man and considered his carnal potential. In fact, she’d have to admit that the last male she’d studied in that fashion had been Bobby Thompson, age eighteen, when she’d been sixteen.
While she’d grown to enjoy Elias’s attentions, they weren’t why she’d married him. Of course—to be entirely honest—given the amount of nursing Elias had needed, she hadn’t often had the opportunity to consider him from a purely carnal perspective.
She shook her head before rubbing her face, trying to force sanity into her idiotic body. Marriage was a desperate necessity, if she wasn’t to be returned to Collins’s company. An affair, no matter how enjoyable, wouldn’t help her in the least. She’d set aside her childhood dreams of studying Latin to resolve this threat. Surely, a frivolity could be forgotten, too.
No, first she had to warn Grainger about the threat to Donovan. After that, she had to find herself a husband—without thinking about Grainger’s possible bedroom skills, given Elias’s jokes about his friend’s predilection for always having a mistress close at hand. Of course, that sort of arrangement wasn’t surprising, given his family’s reputation.
She couldn’t possibly dream about being a woman who’d be warmed against that big body, kissed into near mindlessness, stroked and pleasured by those big, skillful hands into ecstasy. Why, if he lifted her up against his heart to kiss her while his hand sought out her breast inside her evening gown’s neckline…
The Northern Devil Page 7
