Silken Promises

by Lisa Bingham

The ladies’ waiting room. He’d never thought Fiona would have even known about such a thing, let alone made use of it.

  “Take me to her,” he growled.

  Alma’s brows lifted ever so slightly, but she didn’t comment. Indeed, her eyes twinkled in hidden amusement. She made her way through the crowd, into the milling station, and across the scuffed and scarred parquet floor.

  “The… Widow McFee is a charming woman, Jacob. Absolutely charming.” She cast him a quick glance. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve found yourself a nice young girl.”

  Jacob meant to refute her statement—he truly did—but at that precise second, he peered across the room to see the moment he had anticipated and dreaded unfolding in front of his very eyes. Fiona stepped from the curtained partition of the ladies’ waiting room, followed immediately by the diminutive Miss Amelia. In her hands, Fiona balanced her reticule, an empty bandbox, and a pastry bag. Much to his horror, he saw the way she stepped forward, turned slightly to say something to Mr. Peebles, who’d been sitting on the bench next to the door, and bumped straight into the passing form of Mr. Darby Kensington.

  Disregarding Alma Beasley and her resulting comment, Jacob pushed forward, moving as quickly as he could, but his limbs seemed to be mired in quicksand. He saw Fiona’s mouth purse in distress, her gaze flick to the person responsible, then her mouth firm and her chin harden. As if moving in a daze, she bent to gather her scattered belongings at the same time the elegant man beside her knelt to help.

  Jacob saw Kensington look down. Then the oddest thing occurred. He saw the watch chain draped across her waist, and he stumbled slightly, the blood leaving his cheeks, his hands clenching around his walking cane, but Jacob could see no reason for the reaction.

  Closing the distance between them, it was Jacob who helped Fiona to her feet. Jacob who gathered her scattered packages, then swept a proprietary arm around her waist.

  “Are you ready, Mrs. McFee? Let’s go. Goodbye, ladies, Peebles, thanks for all your help.”

  Allowing no response, he left Mr. Peebles and the Beasleys to salvage the situation. He dragged her through the station house. The train outside huffed and sputtered. Engineers and porters scrambled over the brick walkway, calling out their final boarding warnings.

  Heading straight for the last passenger car, Jacob called orders to Rusty as the man hurried toward him. “I’ve found her. Get the men on board and tell them to take their positions.” Then he pulled Fiona aboard and slammed the door behind him.

  Alma and Amelia Beasley stood open-mouthed on the walkway, watching as Jacob barricaded their charge in the ornate private railway car.

  “What do you suppose is wrong?” Amelia asked.

  “I think he was irritated that we took time for tea.”

  “Ahh. What do you suppose he’s up to now?”

  “Judging by his expression, I doubt it was a bit of kiss and cuddle.”

  Mr. Peebles stared at them both in amazement.

  “Come, Mr. Peebles, don’t be so surprised. You must have sensed what was going on,” Alma chided. “The two were meant for each other, I—” She broke off suddenly, grasping her sister’s arm. “Amelia, look.”

  By the barest tipping of her head, she motioned down the line of cars to a band of horsemen who had just arrived. In a concerted movement, the doors of one of the boxcars opened, a ramp was shoved into place, and the men boarded. Despite the heat of the morning, they were nearly completely covered in dusters and hats and jackets.

  “Alma, what are you staring at?”

  “The tall one at the end. Do you see him?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t you remember, Amelia? That affair five years ago in Madison?”

  Amelia gasped. “Krupp? It couldn’t be. It looks like him, and yet…” The train puffed and panted, building up steam. “Drat it all, there isn’t time to warn Jacob.”

  “Come along, Amelia. You too, Mr. Peebles. We’ve got to board one of those cars!”

  “But Alma! We haven’t any tickets for this excursion! Jacob is sending us home!”

  “He can deal with that problem when he finds us.”

  When Alma began running, Amelia called, “Sister? What are you doing?”

  “We’ve got to get to the baggage cars, Amelia. We’ve got to be on that train!”

  As the locomotive jerked to a start, Jacob pushed Fiona into an overstuffed settee, bracing his arms on the sides to pin her in. “What in the hell were you doing in the waiting room? I told you to go immediately to this car!”

  She folded her hands, remaining mulishly silent.

  “Answer me!”

  “I thought it best to make contact early, so that Kensington would know I was on this train.”

  “Why was he so rattled when he saw you?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  The car pulsed with the clickity-clack of the wheels rushing over the track.

  “So what do you intend to do now that he’s seen you?”

  She stood, slipping a jeweled hatpin free. The action should have been completely innocent. Instead, there was something sensual about the way she lifted her arms and drew the slender shaft bit by tantalizing bit from the curls of her hair.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why approach him?”

  She removed her hat and tossed it at his feet, reaching for the buttons of her jacket. “So the man will spend his time thinking of me.”

  The jet discs came free with exquisite slowness, making him think of anything but a wayward gambler.

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t have an answer for that one. Nor did he have the wherewithal to think of one. She had slipped the garment from her shoulders, exposing a delicate silk blouse beneath. One that was so sheer, he could see each tuck and ruffle of lace stitched to her underthings.

  Seeking some measure of control, he jumped to his feet, moving to the sideboard under the window, where he poured himself a drink.

  “The Beasleys—”

  “Are on the next train to Madison, Jacob. You told me so yourself.”

  Damn. In the haze of desire beginning to flood his body, he’d forgotten that the women wouldn’t be accompanying her. He turned from the sideboard, only to find that she was right behind him. Offering him a smile—a tempting, all-knowing smile—she pushed his jacket from his shoulders, then drew his head down for a frantic kiss. When he would have slowed the nature of the embrace, she broke free, shaking her head.

  “No. I need you, Jacob. I need you.”

  Not allowing him to respond, she wrenched at the placket of his shirt, popping the buttons and sending them willy-nilly onto the patterned carpet.

  “Fiona?”

  She placed her fingers over his lips. “No. Don’t talk, don’t object. Don’t stop.”

  Object? Stop? Why would he? How could he? Especially when she stepped free to unbutton her skirt, her bustle, and pushed them to the floor. Hastily, urgently, she stripped off her blouse, foundations, and underpinnings, until she stood in front of him in nothing more than a few wisps of China silk. A delicate camisole, split pantaloons, and clocked hose. When she would have removed them as well, he said, “No. Please.”

  The words were garbled to his own ears, but they caused her to smile. Taking his hand, she led him to the rear of the train, to the dim, shuttered bedchamber draped in maroon velvet. Pushing him onto the bed, she paused long enough to remove his boots, his socks, his trousers. Then, straddling him, she whispered, “We’ve five hours to the first stop, lawman. I hope you prove up to the test.”

  Her kiss was fierce. Jacob had never seen her this wild, this needy. It was infinitely arousing, infinitely beguiling. Fiona became the aggressor, the instigator. Her hands roamed his body, searching out the sensitive hollows and secret nerve endings. He gasped, all reason fleeing his body, all thought of gamblers and vigilante groups. There was only h
er. Fiona.

  She shifted, grasping his hardness, rubbing, squeezing, tormenting him no end.

  “You want me, lawman.”

  He could only nod.

  “You want me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you will have me, again and again and again.” With that, she impaled herself, her head flinging back, her eyes closing, her body shifting in a rhythm as old as time itself. He bucked beneath her, the world spinning away, coalescing into one thought, one searing idea.

  Sweet heaven above. How could he ever let this woman go?

  Chapter 17

  As the train began to slow, Fiona had the distinct feeling that she was readying herself for battle. She’d washed in the tiny tub in the bathing cubical at the end of the car. Following the regimen the Beasleys had taught her, she’d perfumed, powdered, and coiffed herself, then had dressed, layer by layer, piece by piece. Finally emerging from the bedroom to the sitting area, she paused for effect

  “Well? What do you think?”

  Jacob peered over the edge of the newspaper he’d been reading. Fiona could feel the heat of his gaze like a finger, trailing over the black and gold brocade of her hightop shoes, the dull gold underskirt, the heavy black, floor-length jacket edged in swirls of soutache braid and jet beads. Above, her hair had been swept into a bevy of curls on top of her head, and a tiny black bonnet with huge silk sunflowers perched coquettishly over one brow.

  When he didn’t speak, she smiled. “Stars and garters, Jacob Grey. D’ye mean t’ tell me that fer the first time in ages, I’ve struck ye dumb?”

  Fiona felt a pang of surprise when the lilt of her own brogue sounded odd to her ears. She’d spent so much time eradicating it from her speech that now it felt like it belonged to someone else.

  “You’re beautiful,” he finally managed to utter. “I keep thinking you can’t top what you’ve already done and then… you surprise me again.” It was not a poetic pronouncement by any means, but a rush of warmth filled her veins nonetheless. The train lurched, then ground to a stop. The time for Fiona’s masquerade had begun.

  A soft tap at the door to their car brought them both back to the matter at hand. Dropping the newspaper, Jacob eased open the portal, then allowed another gentleman to enter.

  The stranger was tall, dark, with startling blue eyes and a boyish smile. He was elegantly attired in a dark frockcoat and bowler, a gold watch chain slung across his flat stomach.

  “Fiona, I’d like to introduce Ethan McGuire, the man who has been supplying our bankroll. Ethan, this is Fiona McFee.”

  “So, Miss McFee. Are you ready for your skirmish with Darby Kensington?”

  “Of course.”

  The smile Fiona flashed Ethan McGuire was a clear mixture of gamin playfulness and coy seduction. It pleased her no end when he blinked and held out his arm to her in something of a daze. Apparently the Beasleys had taught her well.

  The heat of the evening hit her the moment she left the railway car. Stepping into the sunshine, she opened her parasol, shielding her face from the worst of the sunlight. Within the next few minutes the die would be cast as to whether or not she’d become “lady” enough to complete this assignment.

  Her shoulders drew back ever so slightly and her resolve stiffened. After all that had happened to her father, to her, to Jacob, she would not fail.

  Ethan glanced at her questioningly from beneath the brim of his bowler, but she refused to let even a shred of nervousness show in her stance. “What do you suppose will be on the menu?” she asked idly, tipping her head toward the narrow, brick-front restaurant tucked next to the station house.

  Ethan grinned. “Perhaps a little crow for all those who doubted you could pull this off, Fiona.”

  She tossed him a flirtatious smile. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Gathering her skirts ever so slightly in one glove-covered hand, she made her way toward the café. Every movement was calculated to cause a bit of a stir. The swish of her skirts, the exaggerated twitch of her bustle, the oh-so-subtle hint of clocked stockings above her brocaded boots. That, combined with her apparent indifference as well as her dashing partner and the evident display of a bodyguard, would inevitably garner more than her share of attention.

  They slipped into the cool interior of the railway eating establishment. Most of the passengers who had purchased tourist excursion fares were already seated at the long banks of trestle tables set with linen, china, and crystal. A woman in a black gown and a starched apron approached. When she would have seated them at one of the long benches, Fiona shook her head. Tugging ever so softly on Ethan’s sleeve, she forced him to bend down and murmured softly in his ear.

  He straightened to say, “The Widow McFee feels… uncomfortable sitting at the same table with so many people. She wondered if she might sit…”—he scanned the room—“over there.” He pointed to a small table in the corner, well away from the light and nearly obscured from the other diners.

  The woman appeared surprised but did not demur, leading the way. Fiona deftly took a seat in a place where she would be half hidden from view. Ethan sat directly across from her, while Jacob, the mere “hired help” in this charade, took one of the chairs at the end of the trestle table.

  Fiona saw the way his brow lifted ever so slightly, clearly relaying his message: “What in the world are you up to?” He didn’t need to say the words, as she knew what he was thinking.

  There was no way to explain, no way to relay to him that of all the lessons she’d learned from the Beasleys, this was the most powerful. No man can resist a mystery. She’d already been introduced to Darby Kensington. He knew who she was, what she claimed to be. Soon Ethan McGuire would introduce her into Kensington’s gaming circle and she’d be ready to snare him.

  She knew the moment he entered the establishment. She could feel it in the prickling at the nape of her neck, but she refused to turn and acknowledge him. She remained calm, unperturbed, reading the hand-lettered parchment with its list of the dishes that would be served that evening.

  “He’s here,” Ethan said, so softly, so casually, he could have been remarking on the food.

  “I know.”

  The meal proved to be delicious in more ways than one. The creamed asparagus soup was hot and spicy, the beef tender, the steamed vegetables divine. But what proved the most tantalizing of all was that Fiona knew she was being watched the entire time. Her quarry had taken the bait.

  Dessert was served just as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. A young girl in a crisply ironed gown went about the room, lighting the lamps on the tables, while a pair of boys served melon balls adorned with sprigs of mint.

  Fiona shook her head, signaling that she would not take dessert, then dabbed her mouth with her napkin and gathered her parasol and reticule. “I think I’ll get a breath of air, Ethan.”

  He made an effort to rise, but she waved him away. “Stay. Have your melon, a bit of port, and a cigar. Mr. Grey will accompany me.” Standing, she beckoned to Jacob.

  Throwing his own napkin to the table, he rose and went to her side, ushering her out of the café with all the diffident respect of an employee.

  They began to stroll slowly toward the front of the train, Fiona a half step ahead of her bodyguard.

  “I think you’ve piqued Kensington’s curiosity,” Jacob said quietly.

  As Fiona heard the jingling of the bell attached to the restaurant door, she smiled. “I know.”

  They paced the length of the train, then turned again, making their way back to their own car. There, not more than three yards away, was Darby Kensington.

  Fiona felt Jacob stiffen and knew that his hand had immediately shifted to rest on his revolver. Darby had also seen the instinctive reaction, if the flick of his gaze was anything to go by.

  “Come now, Mr. Grey,” she drawled in a silky voice, which was just loud enough to carry to the gambler’s ears. “We’ve encountered Mr. Kensing
ton before. Surely you don’t consider him a threat.”

  Kensington offered her a slow grin, one that did not quite reach his eyes. “And here I thought you didn’t remember me, Mrs. McFee.”

  “I make it a point to remember anyone who might prove to be a future opponent, Mr. Kensington.”

  “You flatter me.”

  She raised a brow in a haughty manner she’d once seen a shopkeeper employ. “Not at all, Mr. Kensington.” The words were said with just the right degree of disdain to assure him that she didn’t really care whether or not their paths ever crossed again. Then she walked past him without another glance.

  It must have taken him a few seconds to realize that he’d been none too subtly snubbed. She heard the quick clack of bootheels as he hurried to follow her.

  “Don’t you find it a bit of a coincidence that we’re here, together, on the same excursion, Mrs. McFee?”

  She paused then, her heart thumping—partly in nervousness, partly in exhilaration, knowing that she would have to guard her tongue against the brogue.

  “No, Mr. Kensington. I don’t find it a coincidence at all.” She paused for effect. “I am accustomed to having men such as you follow me in one way or another.” And with that parting remark, she turned and sauntered away, knowing that in Kensington’s eyes, she’d just become one of the most irresistible of all types of women. One who felt she could not be obtained.

  “Stay close to me, Amelia, Mr. Peebles. We can’t chance being seen.”

  Alma slid open the baggage-car door and attempted to clamber somewhat awkwardly from the edge. Seeing her predicament, Walter Peebles touched her arm. “Allow me.”

  He jumped to the ground, then turned, holding up his arms to help them alight. Alma looked at Amelia, Amelia at Alma.

  “Ooo, such a gentleman,” they cooed in unison.

  Once they’d managed to find firm footing on the earth again, they tiptoed down the length of the train, using the side that faced away from the platform and the railway station.

  “What are we planning to do again, Alma?”