Running Wild (17 page)

She was wrong.

For most of the race, he stayed a little behind her, the bow
of his canoe to the right of her and just behind her bench. However, when they
were a half knot or so from the boathouse, it suddenly moved forward. He pulled
next to her just long enough to bestow upon her a victorious grin, before he
raced on ahead. Blast him! She put all her might into increasing her speed, but
the burning in her muscles had long since become a deep ache. They refused her
efforts. Nicholas reached the boathouse so far ahead of her that he’d stored
his canoe and was waiting on the shore when she rowed in.

“You, sir,” she gasped, as she took his hand to help her
out, “are entirely lacking in chivalry! Don’t you know that you’re supposed to
let the woman win?”

“Why should I, when you haven’t ever let me win at chess?”

His hand was warm and strong. Her shaking legs started to
buckle. Swiftly, his shifted his grip to her upper arm, holding her firmly to
prevent her from further embarrassing herself by collapsing. “Whoa there. A
little unsteady, are you? Guess you got out of that boat too fast.”

“I am
not
unsteady. Nor am I so delicate as to swoon
from a little exercise. I can stand on my own two feet,” she answered crossly.
It was a fib. Another thirty seconds passed before the world stopped swaying
enough for her to comfortably pull free of him. “And you cannot compare chess,
which is a game of intelligence, with rowing which requires strength. Everyone
knows that men are stronger than women. It shows a severe want of manners for
you to prove it so disgracefully.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that so? Well I
reckon everybody knows that men are smarter than women, too. Still, you oughta
be able to reason well enough to understand that I
let
you beat me at
chess. Wasn’t about to let you win at this, too. A man can only swallow so much
pride.”

“Oh!” she spat out, as the dread of possible failure washed
through her brain, then stabbed at her prideful heart. It couldn’t be true,
could it? Everyone knew that she a genius at chess.

Nicholas, however, was a very intelligent man, and that
smirk on his face confessed all. He was
laughing
at her!

Anger erupted and she gave him a small, childish shove.
Taken by surprise, he stepped back and stumbled over a rock, his arms flaying
as he tried to regain balance. Another step and his feet slipped on the muddy
embankment. The smirk melted from his face as he hit the water and his head
went under.

“Oh no!” Mindless of her shoes and gown, she stepped into
the water, offering him her hand. “Nicholas,” she said, as he sat up, wiping
river water from his face. What a miserable harpy she was! “I am so sorry! It
is my deplorable temper. Mother is forever trying to correct it . . . here, let
me assist you.”

He shook his head. Water flew from his hair and sprayed her
dress with drops of mud. He regarded her hand for a moment. Then he took it,
and she put her all rowing-weakened strength into pulling him up. She was
surprised to find resistance—he actually let her help him. They stepped onto
the bank again. Nicholas pushed the hair out of his eyes and grinned down at
her. “I still beat you.”

“Oh!” she said with a chuckle, relieved by his amusement. He
wasn’t angry. She’d forgotten what an unusual man Nicholas was. “Is that all
you have to say after I pushed you into the water?”

“Yup,” he said. “That and to point out how smart it was that
I took off my coat.” He removed his waistcoat, and then took it between his big
hands to wring it out. Fascinated she watched the muscles of his forearms
tighten and loosen with every squeeze. His shirt was plastered against his
body, displaying his well-formed shoulders, the planes of his chest and the
tapering of his waist—

Oh no, she was not going to look lower!

“Something wrong?” he asked

“No . . . no,” she said raising her gaze. “I was just
admiring your braces. What a pretty pattern.” Blue, grey and silver paisley,
but not nearly as eye-catching as that wet shirt.

“Oh,” he said smiling as he glanced at his suspenders.
“Melinda embroidered a couple of pairs for me. Did a mighty fine job, didn’t
she?” he said, unrolling his waistcoat and giving it several quick snaps to rid
it of wrinkles. It didn’t work. “Think I oughta put it back on?”

“It would be best,” she answered unsteadily. Decency
demanded it. So did her fluttering heart.

“O.K. I’ll leave the coat off, though. Could ruin it, if I
wore it.”

She glanced up at the sun, as he buttoned his waistcoat. She
supposed it to be no later than eight a.m., far too early for most of Society
to be out on the streets. “Well, Gus was going to pick us up, but since we
raced
instead of proceeded at a leisurely pace, we finished half an hour early. We
may walk and be home in twenty minutes. The sun may dry your clothes some, and
your hair if you leave off the hat. I suppose there are too few people abroad
at this time of day to comment on either. Unless, of course, you’d rather wait
for Gus?”

He grinned. “I reckon I can manage the walk. Unless
you
can’t?” he asked, a cheerful challenge in his voice.

“I assure you, sir, I am not so delicate!”

His eyes sparkled at her as he handed her his coat. “Never
thought you were. Here, hold my coat and hat while I stow your canoe.”

***

Boston, Nick reflected as he they strode past well-kept,
brick houses, was a lot nicer than he’d expected. The park, dead center of the
city, was a welcome surprise, too. He’d like to take a walk through it
sometime. More ‘n likely it was god-awful dirty in the winter, what with all
the coal smoke, but on a warm spring day it was downright pretty.

The company made it especially so.

He glanced at Star, effortlessly keeping step with his long
strides. He’d never taken into account a woman’s height as part of her
attraction before. Tall or short, it’d never mattered much to him. But, he now
concluded, having a woman near his height did have some advantages. She could
keep up with him for one thing.

Today Star wore a high-necked gown and had pulled her hair
back with a pink ribbon. A silly straw hat sat firmly upon her dark head. She
looked several years younger than the gold-clad seductress from Monty’s
wedding, and innocent, except for when she shot those devilishly sparkling eyes
at him. That sparkle and her periodic assertion of female independence were two
constants in her otherwise volatile temperament. For reasons he couldn’t make
out, both called to him.

“So,” he said, to get his mind off her siren’s song, “have
you heard anything more from Romeo? You never mentioned him in your letters.
Not even when I asked.”

She shrugged. “Because there’s really nothing to say. He’s a
secret admirer, nothing more. Honestly, Nicholas, I don’t understand your
fixation with him.”

Nick couldn’t really explain it himself. Jealousy maybe? Of
a man too cowardly to court the woman in person? Maybe that was the best way to
court Star. Catch her interest, work some magic through the written word, then
later show up in person. . . .

Not that it mattered. In the long run, nothing good could
come of any courtship. Her six fiancés had proven that.

“That last letter sounded threatening,” Nick answered in as
mild a tone as he could muster. Didn’t do any good to press a person like
Star—it’d backfire for sure. “And because he found you halfway across the
country.”

She shrugged. “Persistence and innovation, that’s all. As
for the ‘threats’, nothing has come of it. I suppose that by and by he’ll
realize his words have no affect and give up.”

“Or try something else.”

“To no avail. Do you know how many men have tried to silence
our voices? The lengths they have gone to in their attempts? It only makes us
stronger. If I don’t fear a crowd of faceless men, why should I fear one?”

And that, Nick thought uneasily, was what worried him. She
was
too
fearless. Fear could cripple a body, true, but it also compelled
caution. “And your pa? What’s he think?”

“No one, Nicholas,” she said in exasperation, “is concerned.
They find it amusing.”

A man slipping on a banana peel, that was amusing. This was
. . . ah hell, what did he know, anyhow? Maybe she was right. Maybe folks in
the East just did things differently. They were strange folk. “O.K. So how much
further have we got to walk? I wasn’t looking on the way out.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?” she asked in a warm, deep
voice. “Are you fatigued? Never tell me that the weight of your wet clothing is
wearing you down, Nicholas.”

Grinning, he shook his head. Man alive, there shouldn’t be a
blasted thing flirtatious about accusing a man of being weak. Star made it that
way, though, as she did damn near everything that came out of her mouth. Fact
was, other than pushing him into the river and the occasional spirited
argument, all of her actions were flirtatious. “I reckon I can make it.”

“Are you
quite
certain, for you know I could always
run ahead and send Gus back for you.”

He ought to resist, but as always that sparkle in her eyes
coaxed every last bit of mirth from heart. “I’d beat’cha.”

She laughed and tilted her head. “Are you proposing a foot
race? Is not beating me at chess and rowing enough for you?”

“Well, to be honest, it was really only the rowing. You beat
me fair and square at chess.”

She stopped, forcing him to halt. “You
lied
to me?”

He stopped too, his heart jumping merrily at the outrage in
her eyes. “More of a fib.”

“A fib!” she said, irritation and laughter mixing in her
voice. “It was an outright lie. Why would you do that? What earthly reason
could you have for enraging me?”

Her eyes grew even larger and lighter in color. A deep rose
flush lit up her cheeks, like a woman in the throes of passion. Erotic
anticipation bubbled in his veins as his hand, of its own volition, reached up
to run over her smooth skin. “To see this,” he said in a voice far too low and
rasping to be decent anywhere outside of a bedroom.

Her lips parted as anger fused with desire. His breath
caught in his throat. She looked exactly as she had in the mountains, right
before she’d kissed him, right before everything he’d ever known about kisses
and women had gone up in smoke. Her lips had been so soft, her tongue moving
over his in a sensual caress—he wanted to feel it again. Just once more. . . .
He’d come over a thousand miles. . .

With his free hand, he pushed back her hat and touched her
mouth with his. Her lips were like velvet. He slid his tongue over her bottom lip,
then gently sucked on it. She swayed, then leaned into him, her lush body
pressing up against his. Her tongue glided past his lips to explore,
tentatively, teasingly, as she slipped her hand between them to brush against
his chest. Her palm was warm through his wet shirt and heat rushed downward,
bringing everything to attention. He cupped her face briefly before letting his
hand drift along the curve of her waist. The boning of her corset met his
fingers. Damn but she wouldn’t be able to feel much through that—

A corset.

Eva didn’t wear a corset. Neither did May, leastways not
when entertainin’—

Star was a lady, not a—

Goddamn it to hell!

He dropped his hand and stepped back.

Her eyes opened, dark and dazed. After a couple seconds, she
focused on him, and on his mouth.

“W—why?” she whispered. Then, as if suddenly discovering
that her lips were unbearably dry, she flicked the tip of her tongue over her
bottom lip.

He could easily picture that tongue flicking over other
things.

Damn, damn, damn. His muscles fought a battle with his
swiftly deteriorating conscience. Searching for ammunition, he took a breath
and glanced over her shoulder. At a house behind them. A house with windows.
Windows that somebody could look through.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice.

“Sorry?” she asked, breathlessly. “Sorry for what?”

“For the kiss,” he said, looking back at her. “It was wrong.
It won’t happen again.” Very wrong. People in the East, in Boston, were more
conservative than in his neck of the woods, and likely prone to gossip. If
they’d seen that kiss. . . . If they figured out what every damned muscle in
his body wanted to do—

“Won’t—but why?” she asked.

“For God’s sake, Star,” he snapped, “we’re in the middle of
the street!” He took a breath and reached for her elbow to start them walking
again.

“Oh,” she said. “I suppose you’re right. That wasn’t
particularly discreet of us, was it? Not that there’s anyone around.”

“These buildings all have windows.”

“Parlor windows for the most part. People are still eating
breakfast in the back of the house.”

He ground his teeth. If she wasn’t sometimes the stupidest
of women—if they both weren’t idiots! “It only takes one gossip to ruin a
reputation.”

She chuckled. “Oh no! You forget, I am a Montgomery. It
would take at
least
three!”

His eyes ran up and down the street. Leastways, she was
right about one thing. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

“In any event,” she said after a few more steps, “I’m far
past my youth and a reformer as well. A woman of my age elicits very little
gossip.”

“Twenty-seven is hardly old.”

“Nicholas!” she exclaimed delightfully. “You know my age!
And
you used my name. Don’t think I didn’t mark that.”

For once her merriment didn’t touch him. He was too angry
with himself for losing control. “Lee told me,” he ground out. The house was a
few yards ahead. Escape.

For now. What about tomorrow?

“He did? Did you ask?” she asked breathless. A
breathlessness that set the godforsaken animal part of his brain to creating
pictures that any man with a drop of common sense would not allow. Not in the
middle of a Boston street, anyhow. “You know,” she continued, “I was beginning
to think you didn’t even
know
my name.”