Lisa Bingham (4 page)

Not about to make the same mistake twice, she tiptoed to the door and carefully turned the key in the lock. Then and only then did she begin to feel a lessening of the tensions that had been gripping her muscles.

As her body relaxed, she became aware of the throbbing of her limbs from an assortment of bruises. Tugging the gloves from her hands, she frowned when she saw that the leather had been pierced by sharp pieces of gravel. Spots of blood dotted her palms.

Breathing deeply, she tried to quell the burst of nausea that too much excitement and nervousness invariably inspired. Since birth, she’d been cursed with a weak stomach whenever her emotions ran high.

Railing against her traitorous emotions, she unpinned her bonnet and tossed it onto the bed. Then, with fingers that trembled, she unbuttoned her bodice and wriggled free.

Normally, Louisa was tidy to a fault, but today she didn’t have the energy to move any more than necessary. As she wrestled with the fasteners of her skirt, petticoats and corset, she suddenly wished she hadn’t sent Chloe on an errand.

At long last she emerged from her man-made cocoon. Taking her first real breath in hours, she drew her chemise over her head and stepped out of her pantalets.

Ruined. All ruined. Even the delicate lace of her corset and chemise had succumbed to the pressures of the day.

Again, tears gathered and a sob lodged in her throat. She never would have imagined that an afternoon could go so horribly awry.

Tearing the pins from her hair, she shook out the tresses so that they tumbled in waves to a point well below her hips. As she padded to the tub, her fingers massaged her scalp, willing away the headache that was already beginning to form.

“It’s been a beastly day, Bitsy,” she whispered to the dog who watched her avidly.

Two dark eyes blinked at her from a mop of silky white hair, but she stood clear of any possible splashes of water.

Draping a bath sheet over a nearby chair, Louisa reached into a jar on the bedside table, gathering a handful of scented salts and tossing them into the water.

She had just turned to step into the tub when a pain shot through her thigh, raced up her back and down to her toes. Crying out, she glanced down and saw a ghastly purple-black bruise darkening her skin from hip to knee.

Louisa collapsed onto a nearby chair just as the door came crashing open and John Smith stood poised in the opening, a pair of pistols aimed in her direction. Squealing in outrage, she felt his gaze rake the length of her body as she grabbed for the bath sheet. Jumping to her feet, she sought the first weapon she could find, a long-handled scrub brush. Whirling on the man who claimed to be her bodyguard, she rained blows on his arms and shoulders. At the same moment, Bitsy jumped from the basket. Yapping and snarling, she came to her mistress’s defense, nipping at John’s heels.

“You beast! You haven’t got the manners of a goat…or a…” Unable to summon words caustic enough, Louisa growled in disgust instead.

Her attack had very little effect. After replacing his revolvers in his holster, he disarmed her with a deft flick of his wrist. Tossing the brush onto the bed, he scooped the dog from the floor and set it outside the bedroom, pulling the damaged door shut.

Separated from her mistress, Bitsy barked even more frantically, and the thump of paws and the scrabbling of claws made it clear that she would try her best to remove the barrier.

Ignoring the din caused by the dog, John wrapped his arms around Louisa’s waist and bodily replaced her on the chair. He held her tightly until her outburst wound down like a child’s toy. Then, despite her protests, he pushed the hem of the towel to one side, exposing the length of her thigh and the horrible bruise.

A long silence followed. Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

Whatever she had expected him to say, his low apology wasn’t it. The sincerity of his tone dissipated her anger like so much smoke, leaving her weary and trembling. His eyes drew her into their dark pools. Again, she felt a sense of familiarity she couldn’t explain.

Gently, fleetingly, John examined the battered flesh. Retrieving one of the linen squares from the pile on the dry sink, he dipped the cloth into the cool water of the pitcher and returned.

Without a word, he pressed the cloth to her skin, softly, fleetingly, with only enough pressure to transfer the coolness, yet not enough to cause her pain.

“Do you have any other injuries?”

“No.” The word barely escaped her tight throat. Nevertheless, he met her gaze directly, obviously searching for the slightest sign of deceit. “No! I’ve got a few scrapes on my hands, but nothing serious.”

One by one, he lifted her palms and dabbed at them with the cloth. With the blood wiped away, it was easy to see that the wounds were superficial.

“I’m truly sorry that I caused you harm.”

His voice was low and seemed to brush against her nerve ends like soft velvet. A molten fire settled deep in her body, radiating to her extremities.

This was madness. Sheer and utter madness. Louisa had been informed of her husband’s death less than an hour before. Yet, here she sat in a state of total deshabille with a man who was a stranger to her. Yes, she had prepared herself to marry a man she’d never met, but this…

This encounter was more intimate, more alluring, more dangerous than anything she could have imagined occurring between a man and a woman.

Vaguely, she supposed that the emotions that swirled within her were the first whisperings of passion—an emotion that she had begun to believe she was incapable of feeling.

One of Louisa’s secret desires was to write a book filled with romantic tales. She wanted to invent stories equal to the depth of emotion found in the works of Charlotte Bronte or Jane Austen. And yet, despite her romantic inclinations, Louisa had never experienced pleasure in a man’s arms.

In her years of service, she had not completely escaped the attention of male visitors. Her red hair and voluptuous build had caused many a man to attempt to woo her into submission. Indeed, it had been the untoward advances she’d encountered in one of her last positions that had caused her to journey to America. Yet in all that time, she had never experienced the quickening of her heart or this telltale shortness of breath. She had begun to believe that she was incapable of such riotous emotions…

Until now.

John glanced up from his ministrations, causing her to look quickly away.

Dear sweet heaven above. She couldn’t let him know what he was doing to her. Her humiliation would be complete if he were to sense the way he’d managed to plow through her defenses in such a short time.

As he bent over his task again, tending to her opposite hand, she gazed down into the tumbling waves of his hair. Her fingers twitched with her sudden need to touch those curls.

What would he say if she were to give in to her insanity? Would he look upon her as a wanton? He wouldn’t be the first. During the attempted seduction by her former employer, he had claimed that no woman with such flaming hair could be anything but a siren and a seductress.

How would John Smith react to being seduced?

The thought raced through her mind with the searing heat of a brand, and she jerked free of John’s hands, her fingers curling into fists until the scrapes burned.

John cast a questioning look in her direction, then resolutely tugged the sheet into place, hiding the length of her thigh and allowing her some modicum of privacy.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Her voice was far too husky and telling to her ears. She could only pray it wasn’t so revealing to his.

His eyes narrowed consideringly. “I’ve got some liniment in my saddlebags that will help to ease the pain. It smells like the very devil, but it will do the trick.” Without another word, he stood and walked to doorway. “After your bath, we’ll see to it.”

We’ll
see to it?

The mere thought was enough to make her tremble anew. Her breathing became strident, her body flushed as she realized that this man had taken more liberties with her than any other human being she had ever encountered. And now he calmly informed her that he wished to touch her again? To tend to her injuries himself?

No. No, she couldn’t bear it. Not after all she had endured today. To have him touch her again would be her undoing.

Knowing that she must not allow him to sense even a hint of weakness in her manner, she jumped to her feet, tightly clutching the towel.

“No, Mr. Smith, we will not tend to anything.” She tried to make her tone frosty and her posture imperious. “As far as I’m concerned, you have overstepped your boundaries.”

“I heard you scream, Mrs. Winslow.”

How was it possible for her formal title to ring like a caress?

“I barely cried out!” she insisted.

He shrugged. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“The sound was nothing more than a reaction to discovering the bruise. And in any event, even if my life had been in peril, you should have knocked!”

“And will you have me announcing my arrival to unknown brigands and making proper introductions before attempting to rescue you?”

She hugged her arms under her breasts, then released them again when his gaze dropped to the tautly pulled bath sheet.

“Mr. Smith.” She tried again, attempting to sound as self-righteous as a dowager queen. “If you are to remain in my employ—”

“I am in your husband’s employ.”

“But my husband is dead!”

“Then I will wait until that time when I feel a responsible party has been brought in for your care before making any changes to the agreement I had with your husband.”

“I am more than able to take care of myself.”

“Not from what I’ve been able to see.”

She gaped at him openmouthed. “I—I hardly see how you could have come to such a conclusion. I’ve been on my own for—”

She barely managed to stop herself in time. She’d been about to reveal that she’d been alone for years. But by admitting such a thing, she would betray her charade.

“I’ve been on my own for weeks.”

His expression was rueful. “That hardly makes you an expert.”

Her bare foot stamped on the ground in irritation before she could stop herself. “Mr. Smith, if you would examine today’s debacles—”

“Today’s what?”

“Debacles! Calamities, fiascoes… If you considered them, you would be forced to admit that all of my misadventures have resulted from your own overhastiness to act.”

“Overhastiness?” he repeated as he turned away in apparent unconcern. “Is that truly a word?”

The moment he opened the door, Bitsy raced in, her toenails scrabbling on the wooden floor as she fought to stop her forward charge. Instead, she tumbled head over heels under the bed.

Without a second glance, John continued into the sitting room. At the man’s apparent disregard for her feelings, frustration roiled within Louisa, causing the last wisps of sensuality to evaporate. Stomping after the man, she tried to hammer her argument home.

“You are missing the point. If you hadn’t interfered in business that was not your own, I wouldn’t have been hurt today and that door wouldn’t be broken!”

John turned, his eyes dark and filled with determination. “I can assure you, Mrs. Winslow, that you are very much my business.”

Before she could absorb the change in direction, he turned and prowled toward her with the stealth and determination of a cat. “I plan to see to your safety.”

“But it is
you
who has made me
unsafe!
”

Before she knew what he meant to do, he whipped an arm around her waist, hauling her tightly toward him.

“Unsafe?” he growled. “You have no idea how vulnerable you are at this moment. There are those who have already declared their intentions to destroy you.”

His words chilled her to her very bones. Looking up at the sharp cast of his features and the tight line of his mouth, she was forced to believe him.

“B-but why?” she whispered.

“Because of who you are…and who you are destined to be.”

Then, before she could absorb his cryptic statement, his head dipped and his lips closed over her own.

Louisa felt as if she had been struck by lightning. A streak of sensations shot through her body, even as her limbs seemed to lose all strength. Unconsciously, she gripped his jacket with both hands in an effort to remain standing, while his lips moved over hers in such effortless mastery that she couldn’t help but respond.

John’s arms wrapped tighter around her waist, drawing her against him, pressing her to his length. Without the protection of her clothes, each muscle and ridge was imprinted in her body and seared into her memories.

Unable to stop herself, she released her grip of his clothes and plunged her fingers into his hair, delighting in the silky texture, the thick weight of the sable curls. Her mouth opened to the pressure of his tongue, and she shuddered as one of his hands spread wide to explore the swell of her hips.

And then, distantly, just when Louisa was ready to abandon all reason, she heard a scrape, a scratch…

The twist of a key in the lock!

B
oth of them moved at once, Louisa to step away and grip the bath sheet, John to pull her protectively behind his body even as he used his free hand to whip a revolver from his holster.

Horrified, Louisa watched as the door slowly opened, revealing not only the dainty form of her maid, but the mousy figure of Mr. Pritchard, as well.

“Get out,” John growled, fixing his revolver on a spot between Pritchard’s eyes.

The little man gasped and backed up against the doorjamb, holding his satchel in front of him as if it were a shield.

“No!” Louisa stepped around John’s body, grabbing his arm, even as her bodyguard pulled back the hammer of his revolver.

Mr. Pritchard offered a high squeak of distress.

Chloe began muttering prayers beneath her breath.

Bitsy bolted into the room, saw a new target of frustration in Mr. Pritchard and began snarling at him, trying to bite the man’s trousers.

“Bitsy, please stop!” Louisa cried.

Mercifully, the dog obeyed, sitting on her haunches, her gaze bouncing over the players in the room. It was clear that the tension in the hotel suite continued to distress her, but she’d been trained well before being sold to Louisa, and she didn’t dare disobey.

Louisa turned to John. “Stop,” she said again, tugging at his arm. Slowly, gradually, he released the hammer and lowered his arm.

“Get out,” he said again.

Mr. Pritchard’s mouth worked, but no sound came forth.

“No, I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Pritchard about personal business concerning my husband,” Louisa announced.

John looked at her, then at the cowering lawyer. His body relaxed infinitesimally. “As you can see, she isn’t ready to entertain your company at present.”

Mr. Pritchard cleared his throat, squeaked, then cleared it again before managing to ask, “A-and who are you?”

“I’m Mrs. Winslow’s bodyguard.”

Pritchard blinked as if John had proclaimed he was the king of England. Then the lawyer looked at Louisa. “You hired a bodyguard?”

“No. Charles hired a bodyguard.”

Pritchard stiffened. “I don’t believe it. I would have known if Mr. Winslow had taken such measures.”

John’s pistol whipped up again, the distinct rasp of the hammer being locked in place echoing through the room.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“N-no, no! Of course not. I just…you must understand that…” He cleared his throat and began again. “If you could provide me with some documentation, I could…”

In three strides, John closed the distance between them. Yanking the man by the lapel of his suit, John held him fast while he pressed the snout of his revolver into the lawyer’s forehead.

“Is that proof enough for you? I’ve been hired to protect Mrs. Winslow. My services have been bought and paid for by Mr. Winslow himself.”

“B-but Charles has been in South Carolina for the past three months. How could he have—”

The revolver dug into the man’s skin and he hurriedly added, “O-of course, I haven’t been privy to all of Mr. Winslow’s business arrangements.”

Bit by bit, John released his hold of the man. Clearly shaking, Mr. Pritchard ineffectually brushed his lapels, hoping to erase the creases.

“Surely Mrs. Winslow has explained to you that her husband has…passed away.”

“I thought I was clear in stating that my services have already been paid for,” John said harshly.

Mr. Pritchard held up a placating hand. “Y-yes, of course, but I don’t see how…why… Mrs. Winslow would even need the services of…someone like yourself.”

Again, John snagged the man’s collar. “Then obviously, you don’t know everything about Mr. Winslow’s business.”

Louisa rushed toward the two men as they grappled near the door. “Stop it. Stop! I won’t have the two of you squabbling when anyone in the world could walk by that door and peer in!”

Finally, something that Louisa said seemed to have an effect on John Smith. Waving the tip of his pistol at Mr. Pritchard, he ordered, “Out.”

“But—”

“As you can see, Mrs. Winslow still needs time to finish her bath and toilette. If she hadn’t been so grief stricken that she’d fainted and I was forced to rouse her, she would have been done by now.”

Louisa opened her mouth to refute the statement, but catching John’s eye, she realized that he had provided her with a logical explanation for being found unclad in the presence of her bodyguard.

Playing along, she stumbled, lifting her hand to her brow. “Yes, I’m still feeling a bit dizzy.”

Immediately, Chloe rushed to her side, murmuring soothing words to her in French. Even Mr. Pritchard seemed to pale when he realized he was trespassing upon the privacy of a grieving widow.

“Oh. Oh, I see!” He blushed, beads of sweat beginning to form on his upper lip. “Then I’ll leave you for…until…”

“An hour will be more than enough time, Mr. Pritchard,” Louisa offered, daring John to contradict her.

To his credit, her bodyguard remained silent.

“Y-yes, yes,” Pritchard gasped. “An hour.”

The man scurried from the room as if his coattails were on fire, securely fastening the door behind him.

Suddenly exhausted, Louisa turned away from John and gently disengaged herself from Chloe’s protective embrace.

“If you don’t mind, I believe I’d like to spend some time alone.” She gazed pointedly at John, then patted her maid’s hand. “I’ll call for you when I’m ready to dress.”

“Shall I bring in your tea?” Chloe asked. “I’ve asked the hotel staff to bring up a pot of hot water.”

Louisa shook her head. “I really am longing for a bath. See if you can delay them a bit. You may return to your own room. I’ll call out when I need you.”

Before anyone could offer an argument, she closed the door and propped a chair beneath the doorknob to keep it in place. Only then did she allow herself to sink weakly upon the bed, close her eyes and tip back her head as if in silent supplication.

As soon as Louisa was safely ensconced in her room, Neil escorted Pritchard downstairs. He didn’t really care how Pritchard intended to spend his time. Neil had his own concerns to address.

Crossing to the front desk, he asked, “Is there a way for me to send a telegram?”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll fill out this form, I’ll have one of the staff deliver it to the telegraph office.”

Taking the sheet of paper and a stubby pencil, he thought for a moment. This was Neil’s first opportunity to apprise Phoebe of what had been happening to her sister since Neil had abruptly left in search of his true bride and not the look-alike who had very nearly married him. He was sure Phoebe would be frantic for news, especially since her own life had been threatened on her journey West. He had to allay her fears and reassure her enough, so she wouldn’t rush to Louisa’s side. After thinking for several minutes, he finally wrote.

Handing the sheet of paper back to the clerk, he took two more forms, writing brief notes to a pair of ex-army buddies.

By the time Louisa left New York, she would be watched around the clock.

Louisa’s bath was far from restful. She was too aware of the man waiting on the other side of the door and the insistent ticking of the clock.

An hour. She had only an hour to gather her emotional resources.

The water grew cool around her as she stewed and worried. Finally, after little more than a half hour, she gave up all hope of coaxing her muscles to unwind. Instead, she donned a delicately embroidered wrapper and padded to the window, looking down upon the bustling street below.

Quite honestly, she had no claims on Charles or the promises he had offered his new bride. If Mr. Pritchard were completely unaware of her deceit, and if Charles had provided for her in some way as his “widow,” would it be honest to accept such help?

A raw laugh bubbled in her throat, but she squelched it, lest Mr. Smith came storming into her room again under the pretext of saving her.

Honesty.
Why was she worrying about honesty at this late date? She had set out to deceive everyone—Charles, his business acquaintances and his friends.

But that was different.

Wasn’t it?

In exchanging identities with her friend, she had fully intended to assume all of the responsibilities and duties inherent to the situation. She had vowed to make her marriage one that would endure the test of time. She would honor her husband and make his life a happy one.

But wasn’t that the crux of her angst? Maybe, after years of serving that role, she wouldn’t have felt so…deceitful in taking any help Charles might have offered. She would have considered it right and proper.

But to accept money when she hadn’t even met the man…

Sighing, she wondered if she should be frank with Mr. Pritchard from the beginning, explain the situation, then hope that he wouldn’t have her hauled before the nearest constable.

Her stomach flip-flopped at the idea and she pressed a hand to it, willing the sensation to go away. Damn this childish reaction from her own body. She didn’t have time to baby a nervous stomach!

Groaning at the mere thought of being sick at this moment in time, Louisa called for Chloe. Although her hour of respite was only half gone, she would rather get this confrontation over with, once and for all.

When Louisa emerged again, she was dressed in sober black. Sober, depressing, smothering black. Her hair had been drawn back in a strict knot at her nape, the tresses parted in a razor sharp line.

As she caught her reflection in a mirror, she grimaced. If not for the rich fabric of her gown, she would have believed she was Phoebe Gray, governess or paid companion. Most of her former employers had believed that the “help” should dress and act with the severe piety of a nun. Two of the ladies she’d accompanied had even insisted that her hair be covered at all times.

As she entered the room, Mr. Pritchard stood. John, on the other hand, remained seated in a chair near the doorway. He tipped back his head with a lazy insolence, but there was nothing idle about the leashed energy of his pose, the intentness of his stare or the finger resting a hairsbreadth away from the trigger of his pistol.

“How are you, Mrs. Winslow?” Mr. Pritchard asked as he ushered her toward a settee.

As much as she hated to be treated like a vapid woman with nerves of glass, she allowed the man to hover over her, then sit on the edge of a chair to her left.

As Bitsy jumped onto the cushion and snuggled against her, Louisa was grateful for that small token of affection. The next few minutes could very well signal her doom.

Without thinking, she looked up. Immediately, her eyes tangled with those of John Smith. Unbidden came the memory of his arms lifting her against him and his mouth pressed to her own.

A rush of nervousness hit her stomach, and she quickly closed her eyes. Pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, she bowed her head for a moment, willing herself to relax.

“My dear Mrs. Winslow,” said Pritchard as he awkwardly patted her arm. “Perhaps we should do this another time. This whole day has been such a shock to you.”

Louisa shook her head, opening her eyes. Carefully averting her gaze from the man positioned by the door, she reached for a napkin and smoothed it over her lap. “I’m just…weary.”

Thankfully, Pritchard seemed at ease with her cryptic explanation.

Reaching for one of the delicate cups and saucers, she inquired, “Tea, Mr. Pritchard?”

“Please.”

She filled the cup with the fragrant brew. “How do you like it?”

“A bit of milk is all.”

The ritual of pouring tea calmed her stomach and pushed the thought of her nerves to the background again. Handing Mr. Pritchard his tea, she paused over the second cup and saucer. Without thinking, she opened her mouth to offer a portion to Mr. Smith, then stopped herself in time. A future marquess would not take refreshments with a hired man. It simply wouldn’t be done.

After preparing a cup for herself, Louisa took a sip of the brew, silently offering a prayer of thanks when the warm, familiar liquid stilled the last remnants of her nausea.

“Now, Mr. Pritchard,” she began, knowing that she couldn’t bear the uncertainty another minute. “What matters do you feel we must discuss so quickly?”

Mr. Pritchard set his cup and saucer on the table and reached for his satchel. With much pomp and self-importance, he used a tiny key to unlock the latch, then extracted a sheaf of papers.

“Before we begin, let me express my great sorrow at the passing of your husband.”

Louisa felt a pang of pity for the man she had never met. Although Louisa and Phoebe had been indignant at the callousness of the wealthy entrepreneur who had married his bride by proxy rather than journeying to England, Louisa would not have wished him dead for the slight.

Nevertheless, her pity for the man was soon swamped by other more pressing emotions—fear, anxiety, nervousness. Louisa bowed her head in a manner that she hoped conveyed sorrow. Inwardly, however, she still vacillated between blurting the truth to this man and continuing her masquerade—a masquerade that she would live for the rest of her life.

Unsure how to respond, she waved her hand in a vague manner. Luckily, Mr. Pritchard seemed to accept such a response, because he continued.

“Normally, I would allow a grieving widow a chance to come to terms with the news of a passing.” Mr. Pritchard stumbled along, obviously searching for suitable euphemisms. “But when you’ve heard what I have to say, I think that you will agree that time, in this case, is of the essence and the circumstances are extraordinary.”

He cleared his throat and peered down at the sheaf of papers. “I have here a copy of your husband’s will.”

Pritchard paused, glancing up at Louisa, obviously debating whether or not she felt strong enough to take the news.

Louisa’s heart pounded in her chest. If she planned to confess, now was the time—before the will was read.