by Lisa Bingham
“Yes. Tell the lad that the message is urgent and must be delivered immediately.”
The clerk snapped his heels together and offered a curt bow, obviously more impressed with Jacob’s caliber since he had such a close association with someone so important to Chicago’s influential literary world.
Jacob pivoted on his toes and strode a few feet away, then stopped again. “Oh, and see if they can’t throw a steak onto that tea tray. Medium rare, the thickest you’ve got.”
The man’s mouth dropped ever so slightly at the odd request, but he quickly gathered his equilibrium. “Very good, sir.”
Jacob paused only long enough to buy a newspaper from the gift stand, then headed for the stairs. It was not until he’d reached the landing that it suddenly occurred to him that he’d made an error in judgment. A horrible mistake. After all his years of protecting his sister’s virtue, of ensuring that no man dared so much as glance at her cross-eyed, he’d left Fiona alone with a man. Unchaperoned. The chambermaid cleaning rooms just a little way down the hall would be more than willing to spread tales about the mysterious woman left alone in the Ambassador Suite with an unknown man. Hell. They couldn’t afford gossip of any sort.
Seeing that the maid had stepped into the room across the hall, Jacob stormed forward and flung open the door to Fiona’s rooms, sure that he would find her engaged in some sort of improper activity with the timid little tailor, if only to spite Jacob.
“Leave her be!”
Fiona and Mr. Peebles jumped slightly at the intrusion, the first glaring, the second shrinking into the squabs of the settee. But it soon became obvious to Jacob that, despite Fiona’s less than proper mode of dress, a good yard of distance separated the two.
“Is something the matter?” Fiona asked dryly.
As she watched him, all knowing and slightly amused, Jacob felt sure they must both think him an ass. He’d come storming in, expecting the worst, only to discover that nothing had happened.
Nothing.
Still, there was a matter of explaining his odd behavior, so he closed the door muttering, “I thought I heard something.”
Fiona didn’t believe him. He could see it in the continued sparkle in her eyes, but her only comment was, “Maybe the Grand Estate has a problem with mice.”
Chapter 5
“Oh, dear.”
The comment came from Mr. Peebles, who stared at them both in evident discomfort. Hurriedly stuffing his things into his satchel, he took the opportunity to break the ensuing silence by stuttering, “I-if y-you’re quite finished with your selections, Mrs. McFee.”
“Fiona. Please.”
The tailor’s cheeks pinkened. “Fiona, then.”
Jacob’s teeth ground together slightly at their obvious familiarity, but he didn’t comment. He couldn’t. Not after Fiona had effectively tied his hands by spinning her pretty tale and relegating him to the role of petty servant.
“I’ll begin your order right away and send these things to you as soon as possible.”
“We need them by the end of the week. All of them.”
Both Fiona and Mr. Peebles looked up at Jacob in surprise.
“A week!” Mr. Peebles grew instantly dismayed. “But I couldn’t possibly have anything ready—”
“You may double your salary if you insist.”
The tailor appeared momentarily stunned, then grinned and hauled his valise to his chest. “In that case, I must start gathering accessories today.”
“Accessories?” Jacob still stared at Fiona, measuring her strength, her will.
“For Mrs. Mc—Fiona.”
This time Jacob’s gaze did bounce in Mr. Peebles’s direction.
“Accessories?” He couldn’t resist the way the word slipped from his mouth much like an accusation. What had Fiona ordered while he’d been gone?
“There’s no need to concern yourself, Mr. Grey.”
No need? No need? His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Knowing her sense of taste, she’d probably ordered a wardrobe worthy of a saloon singer. He opened his mouth to question the tailor, but she was ushering Mr. Peebles to the door.
“Thank you for your help, Walter. We’ll be notifying you at your shop with all of the arrangements.”
Walter? Walter? Jacob felt the inexplicable urge to throttle the diminutive man.
“No trouble. No trouble at all.” He cast a quick glance in Jacob’s direction, then hurried into the hall.
Fiona closed the door behind him, then stood motionless, her back to Jacob. Waiting. Waiting.
“What in the hell have you done, Fiona?” he growled when it appeared she would not be the first to speak.
“Done?” She turned then, her brows lifting in feigned curiosity. “I’ve no idea what ye mean.”
The Irish in her speech was back.
When she would have brushed past him, Jacob snagged her arm. “You’re up to something.”
“I merely followed yer orders, ye big oaf.”
“In what way?”
“I ordered a selection o’ clothing suitable for a British widow.”
“I’ll just bet.”
Her lips pursed in irritation. “There is absolutely no call for yer sarcasm. Considerin’ the way ye’ve been treatin’ me, I’d say that I’ve been more than agreeable. Ye told me t’ wait in this blasted suite—not fer a day, mind ye, but an hour.”
“I had business to—”
“Ye told me t’ bathe. I did. Ye told me t’ play the British society matron. I did. Ye told me t’order a suitable wardrobe. I did.” She yanked her arm free. “Now, until ye’re ready for me t’ move on t’ the next stage of the game, we’ve nothing more t’ talk about.”
Drawing the trailing ends of the bathsheet close to her hips, she sashayed into the bedroom with all the icy formality of a duchess in full snit, closing the door behind her.
Jacob’s hands balled into fists and he inhaled, trying to calm the frustration he felt whenever this woman was around. But try as he might, he couldn’t leave the situation well enough alone. He couldn’t let her have the last word on the subject.
He marched after her, only to discover that she’d noiselessly flicked the latch. “Fiona,” he growled in warning. “Fiona! Open this blasted door.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Damn it all, Fiona!” His fist banged the panels. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”
“I should say ye have.”
“You’ve got some explaining to do. Then we need to get to work.”
There was a rattle, and the door flew wide open. “Explaining? Explaining! I’ve been the victim of yer harassment, yer insults, and yer anger. As far as I’m concerned, yer the one who needs to explain.”
Her words took him by surprise, and she chose that opportunity to stab him in the chest with her finger.
“Why, Jacob?”
He stared at her uncomprehendingly, seeing only the flush of her cheeks, the glistening of her eyes, and, buried somewhere deep inside, the hurt. The overwhelming hurt.
Jacob had always been a man who sided with the underdog. In his years as a lawman, he’d seen enough anger and misery to hate the sight of pain. He strongly believed in justice, but he’d also learned the hard way to believe in the necessity of mercy. Especially in regard to the young. The innocent.
Fiona McFee was not entirely innocent, but she was wounded. He didn’t know why, he didn’t know how, but the emotion lingered deep in her eyes.
Of its own volition, his hand lifted and his palm cupped her cheek. He needed to feel her velvety skin on his own. Just for a minute. Maybe two.
As if that single action had shattered something deep within her, Fiona blinked at the moisture gathering behind her lashes.
“Why, Jacob? Why must ye treat me this way?”
An unfamiliar tenderness crept into his heart. This was a grown woman. Complete in her own right. But lonely. Oh, so
lonely. Just like him.
“We don’t fit in, do we, Fiona?”
Her brow didn’t crease, her gaze didn’t falter. It was as if she’d taken the leap of subject at the same time and come to the same conclusion. In a world of conformists, they did not conform. In a world of blindness, they saw what occurred. In a world of pairs, they had been isolated.
The thought must have frightened her, because she took a sudden step away. “I don’t know what ye mean, lawman,” she said, pivoting on her toes and storming into the bedroom.
“Dammit, Fiona.” But it was little more than a whisper.
When he stepped into the bedroom, she whirled to face him.
“What do ye want?”
He could have offered a teasing rejoinder, a sarcastic remark, but he found himself replying with utmost seriousness, “To understand you.”
Her arms hugged her waist—unconsciously, he was sure. Fiona would never have willingly allowed him to see such vulnerability. She became incredibly brittle, incredibly wary of his mood.
“What’s t’understand?” she offered flippantly, but he heard a different edge to her voice, like a chord played slightly off key.
“Why have you agreed to help us?”
She shrugged in patent dismissal. “Are ye daft? I wanted the pardons. And the clothing—I wanted that, too. Besides which, ye have me father. Despite what ye might think, he’s a good man.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“That doesn’t detract from his goodness. Yer days must be completely without love for ye to find such a concept difficult to understand.”
The remark was meant to wound him, to hurt him immeasurably, and Jacob was astonished to discover that it did sting. But Fiona hadn’t finished yet. “I’ve seen the way ye live, cocooning yerself from every sort of bond. The closest thing ye have to a friend is yer horse—and that’s because he’s as cantankerous as ye are.”
“I’ve got a sister—”
“That ye never see, from what the gossips say. That’s no way t’ live, without ties t’ bind ye, t’ hold ye in, make ye feel needed.”
“My job takes care of that.”
She prowled toward him. “What are ye going t’ do twenty years from now? Snuggle up t’yer job on those long, empty nights?”
“Fiona!” He grasped her by the shoulders, shaking her slightly, wanting to keep her from saying anymore, wanting to keep the words from spilling from her lips. He didn’t want to hear the truth he’d been avoiding for too long. But when he came in contact with those lithe shoulders, he found himself pulling her closer instead of pushing her away. His hands swept behind her back, drawing her to him, to that part of him that had been unaccountably awakened.
Her eyes widened, but he didn’t wait for her to berate his actions. He didn’t want her to stop him. He needed this. Needed to feel her hips grinding into his own, her breath short and labored. Forgetting all caution, all professionalism, his eyes fastened on her lips and he bent toward her.
As his mouth brushed her own, she gasped slightly, deep in her throat, as if she too wished to deny the storm of sensation that swept between them. But Jacob did not let her pull away—not that she tried. He hauled her close to his body, feeling her softness, and kissed her again and again.
Her fingers wrapped around his neck, digging into his skin. Her hips arched to his in a tormenting fashion. Slanting his head even further, he urged her to allow his tongue to sweep inside her mouth, to search, to savor, to enjoy.
When he drew away, they were both breathing hard. She was the first to wrench free.
“Fiona, I—”
When he would have apologized for his actions, she held up a forestalling hand. “No. I don’t want to hear it.”
He stiffened at her words. “At least give me the chance to—”
“No.”
He wanted to break through her cool facade. He wanted—needed—to know she’d been as shaken as he by their embrace. “You felt it, I know you did.”
“I felt nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.” Her protest sounded weak to both of them.
“Why are you denying it? Why are you so afraid?”
At his demand, she jerked slightly, as if she had suffered some sort of physical blow. But she didn’t speak. She merely wrenched free and leaned against the wall, splaying her hands wide as if to brace herself.
“Is that it, Fiona? Are you afraid? Has your father taught you nothing about what occurs between a man and a woman?”
“Go away, Jacob.” He reached out to touch her cheek, but she shrank back. “Go away!”
Jacob opened his mouth to demand an explanation but was suddenly struck by the oddest scent. A very distinct and powerful odor, one that had tormented him time and time again throughout the afternoon.
“What is that smell?”
Her shoulders straightened, pushing her breasts against the flimsy barrier of the sheet, a fact that affected him with the suddenness of a fist to his groin.
“It’s me, lawman. Me!” She jabbed her thumb in the direction of her collarbone. “Ye were so offended by the scent of lye that I took measures t’ rectify the problem.”
“Good Lord, you smell like a bordello.”
“Insultin’ me again, are ye now? Yer not content t’ maul me, y’ have to attack me character as well?”
“Hell’s bells, Fiona, I—”
“At least I don’t stink of sweat and manure and man!” With that parting shot she harrumphed and turned, barricading herself in the bathing room.
Jacob stared after her in astonishment. “I do not stink, Fiona! And we are not finished with this discussion, no matter how long you might try to hide.”
She didn’t answer.
He opened his mouth and strode to the door, stopped, hesitated.
But he couldn’t bring himself to knock.
She was afraid of him, afraid of what had happened, but she wouldn’t admit it. Instead, she had tried to sway him from the subject with a personal attack on his character.
His brow creased in a scowl. He didn’t stink.
Did he?
Damn.
Damn, damn, damn! How was it that with one simple comment, that woman could make him feel completely beneath her standards? Dirty, unkempt… and randy as a goat?
The idea caused something akin to panic to settle in the pit of his stomach. Jacob Grey had seen danger, had faced death, had experienced life’s terrors. But those emotions paled when compared to what he felt now: a deep, overriding horror that he might—just might—be attracted to that woman, that virago, that hellion, that criminal.
Miss Fiona McFee.
Turning on his heels, Jacob wrenched open the door to the suite, nearly tackling one of the hotel servants, who was wheeling a trolley filled with china, tea cakes, sandwiches, and a thick broiled steak.
“Your tea, sir—”
Jacob paused, growled, then ordered, “Take it away.”
“But—”
“Just take it away. I don’t think either of us is hungry anymore.”
He’d gone.
Fiona rested her shoulders on the panels and slid noiselessly to the floor, her eyes squeezing shut, her hands balling into fists. An ache, more powerful than anything she had ever experienced, blossomed in her chest and grew to excruciating proportions.
No. Sweet Mary and all the Saints above, no.
Her eyes opened, blinked, focusing with a tortured intensity upon the mirror opposite. Fiona barely recognized the woman who stared at her, one ravaged by guilt and dismay and an impending doom. A woman who wanted…
That man.
No. She couldn’t possibly be so stupid. She couldn’t possibly long for his attentions, his kinder words, his gentleness. He was a lawman. The worst sort of fellow, as far as she was concerned. He had no place in her life—and certainly no place in her heart.
But something about the way
he’d stared at her mere moments before had eased into her aching soul like a soothing balm. She found herself forgetting everything but the feel of his hand on her cheek, the strength of his stare. The power of his kiss.
She had thought that she would hate this man forever. That he would irritate her, frustrate her, and annoy her. She had thought that would be enough to keep her emotions unencumbered.
She’d been wrong. She might try to shield her heart, but such an action would prove less than worthwhile. Whatever preventative measures she took, the truth remained. Jacob Grey had uncovered her loneliness. Her need for companionship. Affection. He’d uncovered her hunger.
But he would never care for her.
He could never respect her.
“It doesn’t matter what he thinks of me,” she whispered aloud, surprising herself when her voice emerged choked and tormented. “It doesn’t matter at all.” Rising, she turned away from the woman in the mirror. The reflected image reminded her that Jacob’s opinion did matter.
Far more than it should.
Wilmington, Illinois
An eerie gloom hung over the oak-shrouded hills, as if even nature itself knew that this was not a place for joy or frivolity. The evening shadows that gathered were thick and bleak, so much so that the dozen shapes that waited behind him were indistinguishable to Gerald Stone as he moved toward where his men stood by their horses. Not until he’d nearly stumbled upon them did their faces and forms become recognizable.
Buttoning the last few fasteners of his “borrowed” jacket, he said, “I should only be gone a few minutes. Watch the perimeter guards. If their patterns vary even slightly, give the signal.”
Stone heard the men murmur their agreement as he tugged at the sleeves of the prison guard’s uniform. He and his cohorts had been in Wilmington for less than an hour, but they’d already rendezvoused with Billings and Watkins, the two men who had been watching Exeter Prison and charting the routines of the three dozen employees.
“I don’t suppose you could have found someone with longer arms,” Stone groused, eyeing his uniform with concern. The gray wool was filthy and reeked of sweat, but that wasn’t what bothered him. Stone didn’t mind being dirty—the nature of his activities had demanded it more than once in the last twenty years. But he did mind an improper fit. One look at the way the cuffs ended a good four inches above his wrists could cause the wrong sort of attention.
