Leslie LaFoy (29 page)

“I've never fired a weapon of any sort,” Lindsay admitted. “I gather that you're proficient at it.”

“Proficient? Naw,” he drawled. Then he looked over at her and smiled broadly. Devilment sparkled in his eyes. “I'm damn good.”

Lindsay laughed. “Somehow, Jack Stennett, I don't doubt that at all.” The wind gusted, cutting through her sodden clothing and scraping cold fingers along her flesh. Lindsay couldn't contain the shiver.

“I'd offer you my coat, but it's so wet it wouldn't do you a bit of good.”

“I'm all right.”

Still smiling, he made that quick motion with his chin again. “Scoot on over here.”

There was something so right about it that Lindsay closed the distance between them without hesitation. Snugged up against his side, she slipped her arm around his near one and all but wallowed in the warmth of his body. God, what she wouldn't give to spend forever like this. It felt so good. “This is highly improper,” she said, just to assuage a sudden twinge of conscience.

“But it's warmer than sitting there all by your wet and lonesome self, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she admitted freely, snuggling even closer.

“Don't worry,” he said with a wink. “There isn't anyone out and about to see you choosing sensibility over propriety.”

“I've been thinking lately that—as virtues go—propriety is vastly overrated.”

“I decided that a long, long time ago.” He chuckled. “My mother pitched a blue fit.”

“Speaking of mothers, my mother would be appalled at how late we're going to be for dinner. Have I mentioned how very much like her Henry and Agatha are?”

“No, you haven't, but I sorta gathered that all on my own. Your brother and sister are just going to have to understand that they're not always the first priority.”

The notion had been posed for their consideration before. It hadn't gone over well. Maybe Jack would have better luck at it than Richard had.

“Lindsay?” Jack said softly. He didn't give her a chance to reply, before continuing, “You did beautifully back there. I can't think of anyone I'd rather have help me replace a wagon wheel.”

A warmth, deep and settling, bloomed inside her and filled her completely. Words were impossible. Lindsay hugged Jack's arm in silent thanks. Life was good; better than it had ever been. With a contented sigh, she leaned her head against Jack's shoulder and wished that it could go on like this forever.

J
ACK PAUSED AT THE DOOR
on his way out of Dr. Bernard's house. Behind him he heard the good doctor talking to John in low, soothing tones. Ahead of him sat the carriage at the curb, Lindsay ensconced in the box just as he'd left her. It had taken a brutal description of the process of bone-setting to get her to stay there. He'd had some second thoughts about leaving her alone until Dr. Bernard had grasped the lower half of John's arm and asked him to hold the upper half immobile. John had strangled on a scream of pain before passing out, and Jack had been eternally grateful for the foresight to insist that Lindsay remain behind. She had grit, but there was no need to test it any more than necessary. She'd been through a lot in the last couple of days.

He pulled the door closed and bounded down the steps, remembering the determination with which she'd dragged the wheel onto the road and gotten it on its edge. He'd never considered her a fragile flower, but watching her had given him a whole new appreciation for the way she went at life. Nothing daunted Lindsay for long. He grinned. She just loosened her corset lacings and tackled whatever came her
way. God, she was so like her father in so many ways. The good ways, he amended, climbing up into the box.

She'd scooted to the far side of the seat again. He glanced around, noting that the sky had cleared and that other drivers had ventured out onto the wet, moonlit streets. Ah, so much for warmth being more important to her than the opinions of strangers. “You're still here,” he quipped, settling in. “I thought maybe you might have taken the carriage and driven off into the night.”

“I thought about it. How's John?”

“Fine, and the bone's set,” he supplied, picking up the reins. “So why didn't you?”

“I don't know how to drive. I was afraid I'd wreck the carriage and hurt the horses.”

While her tone was lightly bantering, he thought he heard an honest wish and a regret beneath the surface of it. “Would you like to learn?”

“To drive?”

“Well,” he drawled, “I figure most folks can probably crash and maim without being taught.” She shot him a look of good-natured censure and he laughed. “Yes, Lindsay, to drive. I'll show you how.”

She glanced at the horses, and when she looked back at him, her face was bright with anticipation. “When?”

“Right now's as good a time as any,” he declared. “You hold the reins like this.” He held up his hands for her to see how the leather strips were threaded through his fingers. She leaned close, studying them from several angles, and he couldn't help smiling at the intensity she brought to the task.

“I don't know, Jack,” she said slowly, leaning back. “What if—”

“I'm going to be right here,” he promised, laying the reins in her lap and giving her no further choice in the matter. She drew a deep breath and, as he'd fully expected, squared her shoulders and picked them up.

“Nothing bad is going to happen,” he gently assured her, as she carefully threaded the strips through her fingers. “We'll take it slow and easy and I'll talk you through it one step at a time. You've got good horses; they're not going to get ornery on you.”

“You'll take the reins back if they do?”

“Absolutely. Whenever you're ready, give the reins a little flick and make a clicking sound like I did earlier.”

She drew one more deep breath and then committed herself to the attempt. Jackson, true to his word, kept up a steady, softly spoken stream of instruction, explaining each of the terms he used and the mechanics of making the horses go where and when she wanted them to. Navigating the very first corner without hitting it or any of the other carriages in the street produced a sigh of relief and a noticeable relaxing of her shoulders. The second one elicited a giggle of delight deep in her throat. The sound strummed all along his senses and quickened his pulse.

There were no two ways about it; Lindsay MacPhaull was one helluva woman. There had been three marriage proposals, she'd said. And then the one man—The Fool— who'd courted her and walked away. Four men wasn't very many, all things considered. Why wasn't he having to plow his way through a line of men that stretched down the front walk of MacPhaull House and around the block?

Physically, she was the kind of woman that turned male heads when she walked past. No china doll had ever been made that could rival the delicate beauty of her face. And her body … Jackson let his gaze caress the sweep of her curves. Her clothing molded to her and left precious little to his imagination. Jesus, her body was perfection; the kind that invited a man to slip his arms around it, draw it close, and hope to God he could drown himself in the sheer and uncommon pleasure of making love to her.

And yet Lindsay seemed completely unaware of her effect on him. Him and every other man on the face of the earth, he realized. And so he was back to his original puzzle. Why was she unmarried? Why were there no suitors fuming over the fact that he'd walked into her life and claimed her every waking moment as his?

The physical attraction of her aside—which wasn't something to be lightly discounted—she had a cartload of other qualities that were every bit as alluring. Surely he wasn't the only man who appreciated intelligence, a quick wit, refined tastes, and social graces. She was damn re-
silient, too. When she smiled, she lit up the world. And her laughter was so genuinely happy and unrestrained that a man couldn't help but realize that she wasn't bound all that tightly by the notion of propriety. All it took to free her was a little nudge and a playful wink. Lindsay was, when she was being unguardedly herself, a woman of passionate impulses.

And what intriguing impulses they were. How could a man not be fascinated by a woman who didn't have a submissive, passive, reticent, or retiring bone in her lusciously curved body? There was no controlling Lindsay MacPhaull. You either accepted the fact that she was your equal in every sense or you ran for your life.

Jackson smiled. He wasn't the running sort. But there were a surprising number of men in the world who were. And that, he supposed, was the answer to his questions. One look into her dazzling blue eyes and most men would instinctively understand that they were going to have to surrender any notion of being the king of their domestic castle and lord of their financial dominion. It wasn't in Lindsay's nature to back down. Whatever the contest, she'd stand toe-to-toe with a man and give back every bit as good as she got. The greater the risk involved in the battle of wills, the more she'd be drawn to it. And, like Billy, she'd be likely to up the stakes all along the way, confident that the opposition would soon fold under the pressure.

He didn't run and he wasn't the kind of man to fold either. It didn't bode well for the two of them. He didn't seem able to keep from thinking about making love with her and she didn't seem inclined to play the modest maiden. It would be much easier for him to cling to the remnants of gentlemanly conduct if she were to try clinging to propriety, though. As it was, she'd met his every advance without flinching and then calmly bettered him before walking away. At the rate they were going, they'd one up each other into a bed before the month was done.

And would that be so damn horrible? Jack asked himself. Lindsay was a big girl and knew what she was getting herself into; The Fool had apparently taken her for a ride aways down Carnal Road. Jack had been right up-front
with her, telling her that he wasn't about to stay in New York one day longer than he absolutely had to. Lindsay knew that he wasn't a Forever and Always man. If she tumbled into his bed, then she'd be tumbling with her eyes just as wide-open as his were.

And he'd make damn sure they were. There wasn't going to be any bastard child and there wasn't going to be any tearful farewell scene on the docks. And Lindsay needed to understand very clearly that whatever happened between them personally wasn't going to be allowed to affect the business aspects of their relationship in any way. The two areas had to remain separate at all costs; to let them merge, even accidentally, would tarnish all the pleasure they might otherwise have in their companionship. There were lines in the sand and then there were lines in the sand. While some of them were getting mighty blurred, the one separating business and personal was deep and and well-defined. If she couldn't accept that, well, he'd just have to resign himself to being celibate. And acutely, painfully miserable.

“You're being awfully quiet over there,” Lindsay said, gently interrupting his internal diatribe. “Has my driving scared you speechless?”

There was no point in delaying the necessary and the inevitable. “You're doing just fine,” he assured her, turning in the box so that he sat angled toward her, allowing him to easily watch her face. “I'm just wondering about a few things.”

She arched a brow, but didn't take her eyes off the road. “Are there any answers you think I might have for you?”

“It depends on how honest you want to be.”

“Oh, that sounds ominous,” she said lightly. “Are your ponderings of a business or a personal nature?”

“Purely personal. How brave are you feeling, Madam Coachwoman?”

“Very,” she replied, smiling. “I haven't even come close to hitting anyone or anything. And no one has felt obliged to point their fingers at me and laugh. Ask whatever you'd like, Jack. If you ask a question that makes me uncomfortable, I'll let you know. Until that point, you'll get the truth as I know it.”

“All right.”
Take the bull by the horns, Jack.
“This afternoon, on our way to Mrs. Theorosa's … Was it really unseasonably warm?”

“No.”

She hadn't hesitated so much as a fraction of a second. “I thought so,” he drawled, wondering if he was as brave and forthright as she apparently was. “You were getting even with me for the game I played with you in Gregory's office, weren't you?”

“That was the general intent.” She turned her head to smile at him. “Was it successful?”

“Extremely.” He held his hand up between them, holding his thumb and index finger a scant half-inch apart. “You came this close to getting an indecent proposal.”

She laughed and went back to watching the road, saying, “But, being a gentleman, you restrained the impulse.”

He had the distinct impression that she regretted his nobility. “Would you have accepted it?” he asked, incredulous.

“Honestly, Jack, I don't know what I would have done.” She smiled wickedly and arched a brow. “I think it's quite likely, though, that I would have undone another button while I contemplated the matter.”

She could light his fires so damn easily. The fact that she was truly a good and decent person was the only thing that kept her from being a very bad girl. And that made her one helluva interesting woman. “Didn't Abigail Beechum ever tell you that it's cruel to tease?” he asked.

“It seems to me,” she retorted saucily, “that the shoe fits your foot just as well as it does mine, Jackson Stennett. I seem to recall that it was your foot tracing delightful patterns up and down my leg in Mr. Gregory's office.”

“Delightful, huh?”

“Be that as it may,” she offered, the tone of her voice suddenly soft and serious, “I shouldn't have deliberately teased you as I did and I'm sorry, Jack. If you'll promise to avoid tempting me, I'll promise to—”

“It won't do any good,” he interrupted with a chuckling snort and a dismissive wave of his hand. “You'll only undo it all by apologizing.”

She instantly looked over at him, her brows knit and and her lips pursed in a little O of good-natured aggravation.

“You dance, you pay the piper, Lindsay.”

“Well,” she said on a quick exhale as she turned back to watch the road, “if you intend to kiss me for that particular lapse in self-control, you'll have to wait, because we've reached MacPhaull House and I have to get the carriage not only through the gate, but around back and into the carriage house. Do you have any idea of how small the doors are on the carriage house? John's always complaining about them.”