by Lisa Bingham
His fingers closed around her wrist, preventing her from sweeping the swags behind their brass hooks. “I don’t want you standing at the windows where anyone can see you from the street. No one but a few of my own men are to catch a glimpse of you until you’re ready to be introduced to the passengers of the tourist train.”
Her lips thinned. “I don’t see the need for such drastic precautions.”
“I do.”
“I suppose yer word is law on this point?”
He edged closer, his body taut. Grasping her chin, he forced her to peer up at him. “Yes, by all that is holy, my word is law. This isn’t a game, Fiona. The next few weeks are to be treated as some of the most important days of your life. You won’t be given your pardons; you’ll earn them. This is work, plain and simple. Do you understand? Because if you don’t, you may as well let me turn you over to the authorities right now.”
Fiona caught more than the stern edge of a tone meant to discipline her. Buried deep in his words, she found a serrated edge of caution.
“Are ye telling me that this… adventure ye’ve planned could be dangerous?”
“You understood the risks when you agreed.”
“I understood that I would go t’ jail if I didn’t join forces with ye, but ye made no mention of any kind o’ danger.”
“A man isn’t accused of defrauding people of millions of dollars without becoming just a little bit mean about it. Once he knows he’s being investigated, there’s no telling what he may do.”
“I see.” She knew without asking that Jacob’s blunt words were as much of an explanation as she was going to get. He wouldn’t elaborate on the risks involved. It was up to her to see to her own safety. She couldn’t trust anyone else with such a job. Not even Jacob Grey.
“I’ll need a gun,” she stated, breaking one of her own cardinal rules, which stated that, no matter how grim her surroundings, she would not carry a weapon.
“No.”
“I can shoot one.” She couldn’t. But he didn’t need to know that.
“Perhaps, but you won’t be armed during this venture.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not exactly on the right side of the law yourself, if you’ll remember.”
“Are ye afraid I’ll crash ye over the head, tie ye up, and go about my own designs?”
A slight stain of color touched his cheeks, and she was abruptly reminded of how they’d met. Of the way this man had been bound hand and foot and left in a field of foxtails.
“You’ll have no need for a gun, Fiona.”
“Ye’ve just told me I’ve reason t’ fear for me life!”
“As long as you’re careful, there’s little likelihood of any trouble.”
“But what if something does happen? I won’t be walking into this situation like a lamb t’ the slaughter.”
He tucked his thumbs behind his gunbelt. “Have you forgotten that I’ll be there with you, each step of the way? If you need any protection, you’ll get it from me.”
Her lips pursed at his obstinacy, but she didn’t bother to argue. Not yet, anyhow. If there was one thing Fiona had learned in her twenty-three years, it was that there was a time to fight, a time to cajole, and a time to bide one’s time. Now was the time for the latter. But she hadn’t given up by any means. One way or another, she would find a weapon. She would walk onto that train prepared. Jacob Grey couldn’t stay by her side every minute of the day. At some eventual point in time, she would be needing her own brand of protection.
“I’ve got to go and make a few arrangements for your stay,” he said. “In the meantime, I want you to bathe and wash your hair with something other than lye. I’ll return in an hour.”
He strode to the door, paused there, and turned. “I wouldn’t be taking any unexpected trips if I were you, Fiona.”
“Why would I be doing that when ye’ve got my father as a hostage?”
He eyed her, considering. “One never knows what to expect from you. I figure I’m a little safer if I keep warning you of the consequences of any foolish ideas.”
“Fer yer information, I’ve got the memory of an elephant.”
“Maybe. Nevertheless, I intend to remind you every chance I get.”
With that parting remark, he closed the door behind him, leaving her in the humid, heated gloom of her palatial quarters.
Alone and unguarded.
Fiona stood still for a moment, waiting cautiously, carefully. Cocking her head, she listened to the heavy tread of his boots disappearing down the hall. Even though he’d told her he wouldn’t return for an hour, she wouldn’t put it past him to stop, tiptoe to the door, and open it, just to see if she meant to try and escape. But after she had waited for some time, her heart thumping, she realized he meant to trust her.
Trust her.
For some reason the idea of his faith in her discretion had her hurrying toward the window overlooking the street. From her vantage point several floors up, she feared she might not be able to recognize Jacob, but when he crossed the cobbled avenue, threading his way through the delivery vans and hired cabs, she noted his distinctive stride immediately. Even from this height, she could read the purpose of his gait, see the strength of his shoulders, the lithe rhythm of his legs.
Her brow furrowed in concentration. She didn’t necessarily have to like him, but Fiona couldn’t deny that Jacob Grey was a striking man. One who made more than a half-dozen female heads turn and watch his passage. He had a solid reputation and a reliable job.
So why hadn’t some woman snapped him up long ago?
The very thought caused her frown to deepen into a scowl. What did she care? Even if he had managed to find a woman to marry him, Fiona would feel nothing more for the unfortunate female than pity. She could very well imagine the kind of ill treatment his spouse would have to suffer. He bullied women and told them what to do, when to bathe, what soap to use, and where to sleep.
But most of all, she thought with a quick note of panic, he was a man of his word. By the end of the hour he would have returned to see if his orders had been obeyed. If she wasn’t washed, perfumed, and powdered, there would be all holy hell to pay, damn his hide.
Fiona marched into the bathing room, her arms folded, every muscle in her body resistant. She meant to remain strong, unmoved—truly she did. But the porcelain tub with its painted cherubs and honeysuckle called to her in silent temptation. Never in her life had she seen anything so rich, so beautiful, so… decadent.
A sigh of longing eased from her lips and Fiona felt suddenly gritty and ill-kempt. An hour. She had at least an hour until he returned. How lovely it would be to lie submerged beneath a tepid wash of water, to feel the dust being lifted free.
Infused with determination, she tugged her boots free, then her stockings, then reached her for the buttons to her blouse. As she stripped the fasteners free, she scanned the rest of the room, taking in the privacy screen, the fireplace, towel racks, commode, and dressing table. The only accoutrement she couldn’t identify was a strange copper reservoir that had been bolted to the floor and connected to the tub with a peculiar tangle of pipes.
Fiona dropped her shirt to the floor, followed it with her skirt, then grew still, her heart making an odd sort of leap. No. It couldn’t possibly be…
Touching a hand to her throat, she tiptoed forward with the reverence of a pilgrim paying homage to a holy shrine. Kneeling, she plugged the drain with a delicate piece of porcelain attached to a chain, then reached for the matches arranged in a cut-crystal cup. Striking the sulphur-coated tip of one on the floor, she held the flame beneath the copper tank, igniting the gas jet controlled by a valve to the side. When the mechanism ignited, wavered, then burned steady, she sat up in astonishment at having guessed the nature of the contraption correctly.
“Sweet heavenly angels, what a sight,” she whispered to herself. Fiona had heard that the rich folk could heat their water right next to
the tub, but she hadn’t dreamed such an invention actually existed. Never had she imagined that she would ever see the benefit of such a contraption—let alone use it. However, as she listened to the liquid in the kettle begin to bubble and pop in a restless warming dance, she realized that she had somehow stumbled headfirst upon the gate to happiness.
While the water heated to a comfortable temperature, she stripped from her underclothes and wrapped herself in a towel. Moving to the dressing table, she examined the china washbasin, the stack of lace-edged linen towels, the jars of scented salts, and the pats of perfumed soaps. Unable to resist, she sniffed each container of scents in turn, delighted by the variety. Lemon verbena and lilac, rosehip and jasmine. There was even a pine bar, presumably provided for a man’s needs, should one wash here—not that Fiona would allow Jacob to do such a thing. He could find his own blasted bathing room and his own blasted soap.
Filled with a niggling regret, Fiona returned the toiletries to their gaily-patterned boxes and the jars to their rows. She didn’t dare use any of them. There must be a frightful charge added to a hotel bill if they were disturbed. And yet… Jacob Grey had ordered her to bathe, ordered her to wash her hair, and ordered her to smell like a rose. By jimmeny, she would. She would indeed.
While the water finished heating, Fiona dribbled a healthy measure of the lemon verbena bath salts into the tub. Then, upon second consideration of Jacob’s order, she added half the jar, grinned to herself mischievously, then added half of the lilac, nearly all of the jasmine, and a wee bit of rosehip. Twisting the spigot, she tested the water, discovering that it had managed to heat to a tepid warmth. Not wanting her bath to grow much hotter on such a sultry day, she filled the tub midway and selected a floral-scented soap.
The aromas of the combined bath supplies filled the air in a pungent cloud of steam that could have cleared a person’s lungs of the croup. Dropping the towel she wore, Fiona dipped one toe into the tub, sighed, then quickly clambered into the monstrous porcelain basin. Although the rising mist nearly seared her brain, she closed her eyes and leaned her head on the rim.
Lovely. Absolutely lovely.
Almost as wonderful as it would be to catch one glimpse of Jacob Grey’s approving smile…
Her eyes popped open and she huffed in soft surprise. Whatever had possessed her to think such nonsense? Jacob Grey was nothing to her. Nothing but a means to an end. After she and her father had been given their pardons, she would be off in one direction while Grey took the other, and never the twain would meet.
Nodding emphatically, she sank beneath the water, dousing her head in the delicious depths. But as she rose and began to scrub her hair, she couldn’t push away a nagging sense of sadness.
As well as a deep sense of regret.
Chapter 4
Pattersonville, Illinois
Darby Kensington rapped his walking stick on the rim of the carriage. “Stop here.”
The driver pulled to a halt in the middle of a rather unsavory section of town, one that in the past had been considered part of the more fashionable district but had now become the home of immigrants and thieves.
As accustomed as Darby had grown to such errands, he couldn’t help sneaking a peek over his shoulder, searching to see if anyone recognized him, anyone had followed him. He saw no disturbances on the streets, no one that appeared overly interested in why a dapper gentleman would have come to this poverty-stricken area.
“Wait here.”
The driver’s brow furrowed in obvious misgiving. “Sir?”
“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“But sir…” He peered into the shadowy alleys.
“Just wait. I’ll pay you handsomely for your trouble.”
Darby jumped to the road before the man could offer any more objections. Moving quickly, he descended the chipped stone steps that led into the abandoned printer’s shop in the basement of the sandstone building. After issuing a secret combination of knocks, he waited, his heart beating as quickly as if he were bluffing his way through a high-stakes card game.
The door eased open a crack, revealing one gray eye and a grizzled cheek, then he was allowed to enter.
Over the past few months, the cool, musky odors of the cellarlike room had been tainted by other smells. The stink of sweat and ink and whiskey had drowned out the fainter smells of dirt and decay.
Darby quickly surveyed the cramped cubicle. His gambling instincts served him well, allowing him to catalog the dozen men, all of them tired, dusty, mean, and just a little bit desperate. The number of henchmen had grown since he’d been here last, providing evidence that his employer was still gathering his forces—men who were wanted by the law in at least a half-dozen states.
He turned immediately to the man in charge. “Do you have it?”
One figure disengaged himself from the rest, tall and lean, his eyes gleaming in the semidarkness. Gerald Stone.
Darby had worked with the man off and on over the last few months. He’d heard a rumor that Stone had recently spent some time in jail, and Darby was inclined to believe it. The pallor of the man’s skin and the gauntness of his features supported such a claim. But it wasn’t those qualities that caused Darby to despise the man. No, Darby was close enough to the edge of the law to pity a man who’d been caught. What bothered him about Stone was the man’s attitude of superiority. As if Darby were of no more importance than the dust on his shoes.
“You’re very eager today, Kensington.”
“I have things to do.”
“More important than your errand here?”
Darby didn’t answer, allowing the battle of wills to intensify—longer than he should have done, he supposed, because Stone frowned.
“Take care how you proceed with me, Kensington.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
One of Stone’s brows lifted. “Maybe you should be.” He turned away long enough to gesture to the shadowy person behind him, allowing Kensington a little breathing room. Not that he was able to do so comfortably. A potent air of menace lingered in the very air. He could only pray that Stone would give him his money so he could leave this place, these men. Then he’d be on a steamer to Europe.
Stone’s assistant emerged again carrying a carpetbag. Kensington noted in satisfaction that he staggered slightly beneath the weight of the valise.
Darby took it from his hands, preparing to leave, but Stone stopped him.
“There’s been a change in plans.”
Darby stiffened. “I did what I was told to do. I’ve gambled heavily and lost, exchanging your counterfeit currency for legal tender. For that I was promised that I would be paid. Today.”
Stone took a step toward him, subtly threatening him without saying a word. “There’s been a change in plans,” he repeated, more deliberately this time. “The currency in that bag is false.”
A rage bubbled inside of Darby’s chest. “Dammit! You promised I’d be paid today.”
“You will be paid. After one more run.”
“The law is getting suspicious!”
“One more run.”
Darby opened his mouth to argue, but when he saw the way Stone’s men had subtly come to attention, their fingers stroking the hammers of their pistols, he thought better of it, saying instead, “I want twice the amount you offered as a reward for my services.”
Stone’s eyes narrowed.
“In legal tender—not that phony stuff. I can tell the difference, you know.”
Stone thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
“I suppose you want me to take the train west again.”
“Yes.”
“Where do you want me to go this time?”
“There’s a tourist excursion scheduled to leave Chicago in little more than a fortnight. It will travel via Denver to San Francisco. Book passage. In addition to your usual arrangements for a private car, you will also pay for the use of a boxca
r. Once you’ve reached Chicago, I’ll wire a list of supplies to load inside.”
“I suppose I’m to use this to buy it all?” He indicated the counterfeit currency.
“Of course.”
“What if I get caught? There are lawmen all over the Midwest looking for the source of that stuff!”
“Then you’d better be careful, hadn’t you?” Stone’s smile was cold. “A reservation has been made for you at the Grand Estate on Michigan Avenue. You have four days to put your affairs in order and check in.”
Darby fought the urge to salute at the autocratic tone. Stone kept forgetting that Darby wasn’t one of his thugs.
He hefted the satchel more securely into his grip. “This is it, Stone. After this, you either pay me or I go to the authorities.”
Stone chuckled, a disturbing sound devoid of all amusement. Walking forward, he planted his dirty index finger into the snowy white folds of Darby’s shirt.
“Don’t make threats you can’t carry out, Kensington. You and I both know you’re so deep into this affair you can never dig yourself out.”
“Fiona!”
The door to the main room slammed open and Fiona sat up with a start. Jacob was here.
Just the thought caused a surge of adrenaline. The last time she’d seen him, he’d promised to return in an hour. That had been over a day ago. Since then, she’d been left in the suite, wondering what had happened, whiling away her time by pacing the sitting room, exploring the bedroom, and bathing. She just couldn’t seem to get enough of the porcelain tub with its heatable water tank. She’d had six baths, each with a different scent. Her skin was beginning to shrivel from all the water, but she didn’t care. Especially when Jacob hadn’t returned by nightfall and she feared he’d been killed or relieved of his duties and she’d be booted onto her ear in the streets at any moment.
“Fiona!”
Infused with energy, she scrambled to pull the plug. If she didn’t hurry, Jacob Grey would most likely come storming into her quarters to see if she’d drowned. She rose to her feet in a rush of water. The stomping of Jacob’s bootheels was followed by the pounding of a fist on the door. “Dammit all to hell, you’d better be in there, woman!”
