Lisa Bingham (8 page)

As Louisa rushed to meet them, John scooped the dog from the floor and purposely hung back.

Louisa displayed such a complex mix of emotions—being passionate but reserved, impulsive but wary. And yet… He knew she was determined to ensure that no one ever discovered her masquerade.

Somehow, he would have to find a way to change her mind.

Louisa stretched, smiling softly as her thoughts chased away the last of her dreams.

She would focus on the happiness waiting on her horizon rather than on the difficulties of her current situation. In a week, perhaps two, she would have surmounted the last of the obstacles before her. Charles’s body would be here any day. Once the coffin had arrived, she would journey to Boston, retrieve her stepdaughter and then organize a funeral—which would surely be a quiet, family-oriented affair.

Then her life would be her own.

Blinking against the light, Louisa took a moment to focus, then cautiously checked her room, knowing that John would be somewhere close by. When she didn’t find him, she realized that he was blissfully absent from her bedchamber.

For the first time in days, she heaved a sigh of relief. With all the time they’d spent together, she would have expected to grow accustomed to the man. Unfortunately, she was discovering that “familiarity” had not begun to breed contempt. Quite the opposite. Her stomach was so tight with nerves when he was near that she continued to suffer from bouts of sickness. Worse yet, she was growing attuned to his presence, to the booming timbre of his voice. She had even begun to rely on him to feel…safer when he was near.

Safer?

Why would he inspire such a feeling when she was in no danger? Mr. Smith was constantly looking for a threat that had yet to materialize, and rather than relying on the proof of her own eyes, she was beginning to allow his views to upset her.

Which was why she couldn’t relax enough to settle the nervous flip-flopping of her stomach whenever he was near. It had nothing to do with the man himself or the way he made her feel. It was merely a product of his gloomy suspicions.

Why should she be in any danger at all? It didn’t make sense. No one even knew her.

So why was John Smith so adamant about keeping his job?

Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she surmised that he must need the money and was too proud to take it without performing “a job well done.”

Louisa shook her head as if to clear it. Why should she allow thoughts of the man to spoil her morning?

“Chloe?” she called, sweeping the covers aside.

She wasn’t so naive as to think that Mr. Smith was gone for good. But hopefully, he would be gone long enough for her to take a relaxing bath.

Within an hour, Louisa had managed to bathe and begin her toilette. For one brief moment, as she was being cinched into a corset that was kept tighter than she was accustomed to enduring, Louisa briefly wondered what would happen if she were to suddenly abandon her charade. But the moment the idea formed, she pushed it aside, remembering that she must consider more than herself. The money was payment for the duties she would perform for her stepdaughter from now on. Having been orphaned herself, Louisa refused to leave another child feeling alone and uncertain about her future.

“Good morning, Mrs. Winslow.”

Louisa gasped, reaching for a shawl and wrapping it around her shoulders. Casting a disapproving glance over her shoulder, she ignored the wave of awareness that rushed through her body, making her knees weak.

“Mr. Smith, have you never been taught to knock?”

He shrugged, infuriating her even more.

Clutching the shawl even closer, she ignored the gooseflesh that pebbled her skin. Suddenly self-conscious and aware of him as a man, she found she couldn’t meet John’s eyes. The mere sight of him was enough to make her heart pound.

“You’ve received a message from your solicitor.”

He tapped an envelope against his palm, and to her horror, she discovered that although it was addressed to her it had already been opened.

“You read a letter addressed to me?” she asked incredulously.

“Of course.”

She bristled in indignation. “Mr. Smith, I fail to see how continually trampling over my privacy falls into the realms of your job. How dare you take it upon yourself to read my mail and interfere in my personal business?”

John didn’t respond, but he had the all-out gall to look amused rather than cowed.

“Give me the note, please,” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She glared at him when his tone continued to be far from humble.

Snatching the note out of his hands, she struggled to open it with fingers that trembled.

“Your lawyer is informing you that Charles’s coffin has arrived and the private Winslow railway car has been hooked onto the afternoon train to Boston in preparation for your journey home.”

Louisa pressed her lips together to keep from snapping at him like a fishwife. As soon as she’d gathered her control, she turned to Chloe and said, “Would you excuse us for a moment, please?”

If she was going to lose her temper, she didn’t intend to have her maid be witness to the fact.

The door closed behind Chloe, but before Louisa could say a word, John said, “I’ll wait while you write an answer telling him that you won’t be going.”

Louisa glared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ll need to tell him that you won’t be leaving just yet.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Because it isn’t safe. You shouldn’t go anywhere until I can take measures to ensure your security.”

She groaned, rubbing at the ache that was beginning to throb at her temples.

“Mr. Smith, we have been through all of this time and time again. You have yet to convince me that I need a bodyguard at all. Since that is the case, I refuse to stay here any longer while you dither and delay.”

“Since I’m the professional—”

“No, Mr. Smith. I’m not going to listen to any more of your nonsense.” With her fury building, she advanced, poking him in the chest with her finger. “You continually forget that
you
are the employee in this situation.”

“Your husband—”

“My husband is dead. He is unable to give you orders.”

“I think that he—”

“Mr. Smith, my husband’s body is waiting at the railway station. The time has passed for his remains to be put to rest. As much as you might think that you have my best interests at heart, in this matter I will not relent.” Her breath caught in an unconscious sob. “I want to go home. I have waited long enough and my husband has waited long enough, and in this I will not be denied!”

“Home? How can Charles Winslow’s estate be home to you when you have never been there?”

Louisa’s eyes filled with tears. Why was this man being so hateful to her? What could she have possibly done to deserve such treatment?

“Stay for a few days,” he said, taking her hands.

“No.”

He tugged her closer. “A day, then.”

“No.”

He framed her face with his hands. “Why can’t you trust me in this matter? Why can’t you understand that I have your best interests at heart?”

“Because I have absolutely no reason to trust you.”

For the first time, something she said seemed to give him pause.

“I would never hurt you,” he murmured.

She should have been reassured, but when his touch began to arouse an unsettling mixture of desire and awareness, she trembled.

“Trust me,” he whispered. Then, bending toward her, he touched her lips with his, softly at first, then again and again.

In an instant she was flooded with a yearning that could not be satisfied with a quick embrace. Even as she damned herself for being a fool, she lifted herself on tiptoe, allowing him to take her weight as her arms slipped around his neck.

“Please don’t do this to me,” she whispered when he abandoned her lips to trace the line of her jaw, then dip down to the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Don’t do what?”

She couldn’t gather her wits enough to answer. Did she want to plead with him to stop ordering her about? To stop interfering in her private affairs?

Or did she want him to stop caressing her, kissing her, so that she could gather her wits again?

You’re a widow. You’re a widow….

But even as she inwardly repeated the words to herself, she couldn’t bring herself to push him away. He was becoming an obsession, an addiction.

When he lifted his head, she clutched at him, attempting to pull him back.

“We can’t do this,” John whispered.

She offered a sound that was half moan, half sob of regret.

For long moments, he stared down at her, his eyes growing incredibly dark with the intensity of his need. She shuddered beneath the depth of his hunger, alarmed and exhilarated by what she saw.

He wanted her.

As much as she needed him.

Her heart beat in an odd tattoo. Her breathing became labored. She waited for the moment when his control would snap and he would make the decision for both of them.

But just when her body clamored for the unknown, he stepped away, gently removing her arms from around his neck.

“We’ll go to Boston,” he said gruffly.

The shock of his rejection kept her rooted to the floor. She gazed up at him, feeling both relieved and abandoned. Instinctively, she knew that a single word would be enough to bring him back. But just as certainly, she knew that to speak it would destroy the new life that she had begun to build for herself.

Bit by bit, the hunger within her waned to bitter ashes. Suddenly chilled, she wrapped the shawl around her body and huddled in its slight warmth.

Sensing her withdrawal, John dipped his head. Then, without another word, he turned and left her alone in the room.

John didn’t stop until he reached the hall and shut the door behind him. Then he leaned a hand against the wall and took a deep, calming breath.

Damn it, with each encounter, he was forced to reevaluate his commitment to this enterprise. After spending only a short time with “Louisa,” he was compelled to acknowledge that it would be impossible to walk away. She was a study in contradictions—beautiful yet modest, reserved yet sensual. She had the face of an angel, but the passion of a sinner.

And Neil was drawn to her in a very elemental way.

Sighing, he admitted that his attraction hadn’t made his task any easier. On the contrary. The longer Louisa remained locked in her role as Charles’s widow, the more complicated the situation became.

He supposed that he could tell her the truth, but he knew instinctively that it would be unwise at this point. He needed to remember that she truly was in danger. If she decided his lies were reason enough to send him away, there would be no one to watch out for her welfare.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to banish the image of her from his mind’s eye. But the memory of the way she’d stood trembling in his embrace, her eyes dark, her lips parted and moist from his kiss, would not be so easily dismissed. Even now, Neil wanted nothing more than to carry her away, forcing her to return to the life she had originally agreed to adopt, but he quickly reined in his own impulsiveness.

Despite everything that kept them apart, there was one factor that weighed most heavily on his mind. He wouldn’t force her to do anything. He wanted her to marry him and come to Oregon willingly.

Until then…

Until then, they would go to Boston, he thought, straightening. If nothing else, the journey would allow him to keep a close eye on her. He was growing more and more concerned by the way Louisa seemed healthy one minute, then was hunched over a chamber pot, sick, the next. She had continually reassured him, insisting she was perfectly fit, but he wasn’t so sure….

If he hadn’t known it was impossible, he might have thought that Louisa was suffering from morning sickness.

The moment the idea formed, he brushed it aside.

Preposterous. Louisa and Charles had been married by proxy. If she’d had an intimate relationship with anyone before that time, Neil would have found hints of it in her letters.

She couldn’t be pregnant.

A knock at the door brought his thoughts to an abrupt halt. Pushing his misgivings aside, Neil drew back the hammer of his pistol and eased open the door.

A young boy dressed in hotel livery held up an envelope. “Telegram.”

Neil slid his revolver into his holster, gave the youth a tip, then took the slip. As he closed and locked the door, a glance at the name “John Smith” on the front brought a chill. Only two other people knew his alias. The woman who called herself Phoebe Gray and her new husband, Gabriel Cutter.