The Indiscretion (12 page)

Some passing, two-bit cowpoke
, he thought. Which wasn't
him exactly, yet it was an image of himself that clung, especially when he felt
unequal to what was being asked of him.

She said nothing, looking as forlorn as a woman could.

He forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood, shaking his head in
disbelief. "I gotta kiss you to make everything right? Come on, you don't
want me to. Think about it."

More silence. She frowned down, no longer willing to voice a
desire he realized he was playing too lightly with. She was serious. There were
tender feelings here, things she worried about.

More earnestly, he told her, "Listen,
Liddy
.
If I kiss you right, you aren't gonna be less hot and bothered, you're gonna be
more. And I'm gonna get like I got last night – I know you noticed, 'cause it
was impossible to miss. I don't relish the feelin' of wantin' you and bein'
gentlemanly about it. Don't put me in that bind."

Her large eyes looked up at him. Very quietly, way too softly, way
too appealing in tone, she said, "I want to know what it's like."

He let out a quick breath, exasperation, mild anxiety. "Well,
I'm not the one who's gonna show you. I like feeling honorable. Which means I
don't sleep with sweet little virgins, no matter how curious they are – as soon
as we get ourselves out of our little fix here, you're going home: Remember
that."

She looked up sharply, making a click with her tongue. "I
wasn't suggesting we sleep together."

He laughed, then caught himself. He didn't want to sound too
arrogant, but he'd felt the way she'd shivered when he'd moved her hair back.
"Darlin'," he said gently, "I think we have ourselves here a
pretty powerful attraction. Don't underestimate it. Or me." He didn't know
if she'd accept the warning for what it was. "With all due respect,"
he said, "if I kiss you, I'll have you on your back in less than a
hiccup."

Best to change the subject. He patted the satchel and asked,
"So what's in here that's gonna cause such a stir?" He smiled what he
hoped was a friendly smile. It was a friendly warning he'd given her, good-intentioned
advice.

She only stared at him, then sat back and drew her knees up,
pulling her shawl up as she wrapped her arms around her legs.

After a few seconds, he dug down into her bag again. She just let
him, though she was about as cheerful as a woman with a noose round her neck.

Inside the bag, he pushed her petticoats and some other lacy
things aside. Beneath them, he found a long, flat leather case. Soft, expensive
leather. He took it by its brass handles – its fittings were brass, too, all
shine, spit, and polish. The whole thing gleamed as he lifted it out.

She gave both him and it an anxious glance, then looked away
again. He set the case down on its side – the thing was longer than she was
tall – then paused. He gave her a chance to explain. "You wanna say before
I open it?"

"I, um—" She pressed her lips into that tight line she
could make of them. "I—"

"What?"

"I— It's—" She said in a rush, "It's a bow."
She bit her lip and looked down. "And if you dig at the side of the
satchel, in with my handkerchiefs and, um, underthings are a leather fingertip,
an arm protector, and a quiver full of arrows."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

He sucked on a back tooth, staring at her. "You let me set
traps and throw rocks all night when you had a bow with arrows in here?"

She frowned and talked quickly. "They're target arrows. They
don't have barbs. If we hit an animal with one, it might fall out, the animal
should almost certainly run off to die, and we should never have the chance to
eat it."

"We could've chased it."

"In the dark?"

After a second, he nodded. "All right. That makes some
sense."

She looked down again, literally hung her head, furrowing her
brow, her whole face, till her expression became a wince. "I didn't want
to tell you because I knew it would be hard to explain."

He shrugged without understanding. "You seem to have done it.
That wasn't so hard."

She made another tight frown. "You'd better look at them
first."

He lay the case out, flat on top of the satchel, flipped its
latch, and opened the lid. The interior was a formed baize, shaped perfectly
for what it held: a six-foot bow. An expensive one. Yew, he'd guess. One
six-foot piece of perfect Italian or Spanish yew. In the States, the bow alone
would have cost at least twenty dollars.

He glanced up at her over the lid. Fighting back a more sarcastic
remark, he said, "Ladies' maids sure get paid a lot better on this side of
the ocean than they do where I come from." Then, "Are you any good
with it?"

"Awfully."

He snorted. "Does that mean you're awful or good?"

She didn't answer. She'd already squinched up her face again,
shaking her head – little reluctant shakes as she said, "I'm not really a
lady's maid."

"No kidding." He pulled a face, but the hurt on hers made
him regret his sarcasm. More gently, he asked, "All right, what's the
truth?"

"I'm – I—" She pressed her lips inward, then told the
ground, "I'm a— Oh, you wouldn't know my family, but my father's a
viscount. Do you know what that is?"

Sam let out a short abrupt laugh – "Yes" – then really
let loose: He sat back onto his hind end, guffawing himself into deep belly
laughter. When he could control it, he told her, "Oh, fine. Now you're
near-royalty. Didn't your mama and daddy teach you it isn't nice to make up
stories?"

"I am!"

"Right." His hand found the book at his hip.
Buffalo
Bill and the
Stagecoach Bandits.
He looked down at it. Oh, what a little
liar she was. He ought to swat her, not laugh, but he could only shake his
head. "You're hopeless," he told her.

She insisted, looking for all the world offended. "I really
am. I'm Lydia Bedford-Browne. My father's the Viscount Wendt."

Trying to keep a smirk off his face, he said, "And that coach
at the bottom of the bog had a regal crest on it. Why, the queen is probably
your aunt."

"Actually, she's my second cousin." He only laughed
loudly for a few seconds because, when he did, her face fell – she looked
crestfallen. "You don't believe me," she said.

"Look at yourself." She was getting better at
storytelling, though, he had to admit. Her confusion seemed downright sincere.
As she sat there in her plain dress. "You look like a schoolmarm from back
home. A schoolmarm with a big imagination. Which we know you have."

She glanced down, her messy hair dangling onto her knees, onto her
dirty skirt that covered her shins. She stared at herself for a minute, as if
puzzled to find herself in a ready-made dress with no trim, if nice buttons.
She glanced over at him, started to weave herself a new little explanation –
"I wore something that— So people shouldn't—" Then made a pathetic
frown and stopped, the wind gone from her sails. Though he had to give her
this: She remained a contradiction. Her petticoats and shawl were expensive.
Her bow and arrow setup was first-rate.

He rubbed his chin – it felt like coarse sandpaper – then his
whole cheek. He grinned and tried to cheer her up. "I must look pretty
terrible myself," he said. He picked up the book. "You want me to
read first or you? I figure we can kill these bandits and a few buffalo, scalp
an Indian or two, and save the Pony Express, all before this fog blows
off."

Her face was hesitant, then a little ray of hope broke onto it, a
shy smile. She nodded. "You read first," she said. After a few
seconds, she offered a weak laugh. "If you come to any big words, just
ask." Her smile grew bolder. "But I get to read the parts about the
gunfights and any bad men who die like the dirty dogs they are. I love those,
and I read them rather well. I've read most of those parts a dozen times at
least."

Sam laughed, despite himself. She was a whangdoodle, this one.
And, doggone, if he didn't like her for it. Oh, yeah, kiss her, he thought.
Wouldn't he just like to, though? Starting with those two dimples, one over
each butt cheek at the base of her spine.

8

It
is not probable that
Chicago
will ever look on the
like again … of [such] incongruous dialogue, execrable acting … intolerable
stench, scalping, blood and thunder…

Chicago Tribune
, review of

Buffalo
Bill's "The Scouts of the
Prairie," 1872

S
am sat beside Liddy in a cocoon of fog, shoulder to shoulder, as
they took turns reading a book he loved and she liked darn well, too, though
she didn't like to admit it. The way they worked it, he read ten minutes, then
she read.

He was on his third turn – doing trick shooting over his shoulder
at a renegade band of Indians chasing him – when he realized out the corner of
his eye she was smiling at the ground.

She sat, her knees up, her shawl pulled around her shoulders and
legs, her chin on the tops of her knees, a swaddled bundle: while her mouth
held a little smile – da Vinci would've liked the subtlety of it – that seemed
out of keeping with the idea of shooting Indians. Sam read a page more, while
her inscrutable smile persisted through wild riding, arrow dodging, and a lot
of gore and blood.

"All right," he said finally. He dropped his arm over
his leg, his thumb holding the page. "What are you grinning at?"

She bowed her forehead into her knees immediately, as if by hiding
she wouldn't have to answer.

"What?" he insisted, unable not to smile himself. He
gave her a little nudge with his elbow.

She shook her head, then spoke into her muffling skirts.
"Nothing." She let out a laugh, almost a giggle.

"Not nothing. What's making you smile like that?" So
pretty.

She turned her head, leaning her cheek, and let her eyes slide to
him. "All right. I was thinking it's flattering, what you said." When
he didn't know what she meant, she explained, "About not kissing me
because, well—" Her smile opened up as her eyes lowered, hesitantly
pleased. "As if I'm some sort of femme fatale." Her smile went
suddenly, shyly wide, spreading into her fine, generous mouth. "It's a
relief." She laughed, so glad she was giddy. "You see, I thought you
thought— Well, never mind. I'm so glad you don't think I'm a tart."

"But you are," he said stonily.

She blinked, her smile fading a little.

He let her off the hook. "The sweetest sort," he said and
grinned. "A pie supper, remember?"

She repeated, "Pie supper." Her smile curled softly back
again, just a line at her mouth, though big – it gleamed – at her eyes.

There he and she sat, grinning at each other for no particular
reason. With Sam enjoying the hell out of the look of her: the way she met his
gaze, the delicacy of her thin-limbed body folded up under her dark purple
shawl (by daylight, the color of black plums, or, no, whortleberries, he
thought), her wild hair lying over it in long, crazy gold and brown spirals
that wound down her back, over her shoulders, down over her bosom. All of this
adrift in white vapor. It was like sitting inside a cloud beside a disheveled,
mischievous angel—

"Right." He returned his attention to the book, bringing
it back up in front of his eyes, and began to read. "'Buffalo Bill, like
knights errant of old, wanted justice and was willing to fight for it—'"

Quietly, she said over this, "And you couldn't do it."

"Do what?" He looked at her.

"You know." In case he didn't, smiling over her knees
again, she told him: "You couldn't either have me on my back in the space
of a—" She threw him a sly glance, then said, "A hiccup is rather
quick."

Sam felt his mouth open, though no words came out. The hair at the
back of his neck lifted. He said finally, after too long a silence, "I'm
not responding to that." He turned back to the book. "'The cavalry
was ready—'"

"Anyway, you couldn't do it, and wrestling me there wouldn't
count. I should have to go on my own."

He frowned over at her. "We're not having this conversation,
Lid—"

"You couldn't."

"Don't tempt me."

"Couldn't."

"Could."

"Couldn't."

He laughed and turned toward her, dangling the book over his knee.
"You know, if a woman asks for trouble, I usually give it to her." He
put his tongue on a side tooth and considered. "All right, a hiccup was a
figure of speech. I meant in a short time. How long do you think you could
last?"

Her eyes widened, though her little smile didn't leave her face.
He and she weren't serious here, he thought, just tormenting each other, out of
boredom, because they had nothing better to do. "I don't know," she
said. "Five minutes?"

"Five minutes!" He shook his head, chuckling. "Well
I declare. I must be more attractive than I thought, if five minutes is all
it'd take before your knees'd buckle."

She let out a squawk – "Ack!" – then protested,
"It's longer than a hiccup."

"Yeah, but we already agreed that was too short. So how long
does it usually take? How long before I'd hold the record?"

"Ack!" was all she said again.

He winked his good eye at her. "Don't worry. We're not going
to find out, so it doesn't matter."

She stared at him, looking disconcerted, then let out a release, a
light laugh into her knees. "Right," she said, exactly as he usually
said it, still game enough to pull his leg by mimicking him. She smiled down
again at the ground, though a little less confidently – shyly, prettily.

He shook his head and lifted the book back up in front of his
eyes. He and she were just having fun. Let her smile how she wanted.

Before he could start, she asked, "Do you read other kinds of
books?"

He glanced at her. "You mean, besides catfish-dumb cowboy
books?"

"I didn't say that." She supplied, "Austen?"

"Jane? No. Don't like her books. But Dickens and Collins.
I've read all of theirs."

She nodded, smiled. "We both like books."

"We sure do." Sam was pleased she'd admit they had
something in common, even if it wasn't every single author. He added, not
wanting to make too much of it, "I wrote a book once."

She looked over at him. "Really?"

"Yeah, when I was young. When I was in school."

"About what?"

"About nothing. A bunch of sayings I liked." In fact, a
reviewer of
A Texan in Massachusetts
had called it "a collection of
witty aphorisms and surprising home truths." Sam wasn't so full of himself
as to take such praise seriously. Still, as he sat there, he tried to figure
out a way to work his little moment of glory into the conversation. Instead,
though, the darnedest thing, what came out his mouth was: "'Idiot country
boy sayings,' my father called them. I gave him the book, and he threw it down
the hole in the outhouse. 'Bunch of crap,' he said, pardon my French."

She looked honestly horrified. "What an awful father!"

"Oh, yeah." Sam raised his brow in appreciation.
"My father was a humdinger. He went through five wives, survived two wars,
was a bandit for a while, a sheriff for a while, worked the range for years,
and could run a ranch, too. Lots of people respected him. But not many liked
him. He was mean as blazes." He laughed. "Some days, I'm a whole lot
more like him than I want to be."

He'd said too much again. Her eyes stared at him, wide with
amazement and, possibly, appall. Then she asked, "You think people don't
like you?"

"Some days." He studied her. "Though I think you do
maybe."

She bowed her head, smiling almost with dismay. "I
daresay."

He was fairly certain this meant yes. He added, "Even though
I come from the darnedest background."

She nodded, another agreement. Why, they were full of accord this
morning. She smiled that mysterious little smile of hers again and stared out
over her knees.

They took turns, reading the whole Buffalo Bill book, which wasn't
saying much since it was short. It was no more than
noon
when they
finished. And still the fog didn't lift enough that they could see two feet in
front of them.

Lydia, who'd read the last pages, quietly closed the book, then
held it in her hands for several seconds and stared at it. She'd liked the
stupid thing.

She'd read and liked all – oh, if she was honest, six: She'd
purloined six Buffalo Bill novels from Clive, with at least twenty to go,
judging from his stash in the bottom of his wardrobe. She'd liked them all.
They were satisfying: Right won. Wrong was punished. The brave and truthful
took the day. And she especially liked reading about all this with Sam Cody,
while joking and sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed.

She let the book rest in her skirt and stretched, aware of Mr.
Cody without looking at him. He stretched, too, unfolding his long legs,
flexing a booted ankle as he leaned back onto one arm. He stretched one leg
then the other, getting the blood flowing. They had both been so engrossed by
the end of the book, they'd sat stock-still lest they miss a word.

He muttered something about that being a "darn good
yarn."

"I
liked
it," she declared firmly. When he smiled
over at her, she felt suddenly so good. She added, "And my brother has
some photographs of some people in their knickers that I found under his books,
and they purely fascinate me." Not to mention some drawings of a slightly
obscene Greek play an American probably wouldn't know much about. "There
is a whole world of things, I suspect, I'm not supposed to like that I
love."

He raised his brow, mock horror, then laughed, teasing, "You
go through your brother's drawers?"

"His wardrobe. I know I shouldn't." She joined him in
rolling her eyes at herself. "Another horrible thing I ought not to like.
But I do – I saw him hide something there after he'd been tormenting me about,
oh, I think being late which I always am almost everywhere I go. This time, I
was just angry enough to see what he'd hidden. And,
voilà
, a treasure
trove of contraband. Our mother would kill him."

"How old is he?"

"Clive is twenty-two."

He smiled. "Old enough to take care of himself against his
mother, then."

She rolled her eyes. "You don't know our mother."

"Your father can show him."

Lydia
snorted at
that. "If he were around enough." She leaned toward him, lowering her
voice as if someone might hear. "I've never said this aloud," she
began. "But I think my parents are waiting till Clive and I are married,
then they will probably go their separate ways. They don't like each
other."

"Ah," he said, his brow knitting with a look of empathy.

"I mean," she explained, "they might worry that a
nice family shouldn't wish to marry into one with such a rift in it. I think
they might even consider divorce, which is so scandalous, isn't it?" She
didn't wait for an answer, but glanced away. "Anyway, I think they're
waiting it out. It's sad." She changed the subject. Brightly, she asked,
"So are you related?"

He blinked. "Related?"

"To
Buffalo
Bill Cody. You
have the same last name."

"To the mustachioed showman who runs the
four-hundred-fifty-horse circus?" He snorted out a guffaw. "My pop
used to say we were. Our cousin, William F." He said, "I don't think
so, though. You've seen the show?"

"All four hundred and fifty horses, plus Sitting Bull and
Annie Oakley." Another easy confession to Mr. Cody, who never looked down
on anyone or anything, she realized. She liked him for that. Smiling, she
asked, "You?"

He said, "Mm," which meant yes. "Complete with
buffalo hunt. Twice."

She laughed. "Me, too. Clive sees it every time it comes to
London
, I think he's
seen it four times. Where did you see it?"

"
Chicago
."

"Both times?"

"Yep."

Lydia
let her mind
drift. After a minute, she asked, "What's the farthest you've been from
home?"

He said thoughtfully, "Here, pretty much. And it's too far. I
want to go back."

"What's the best and worst thing you have seen away from
home?" When he didn't seem to understand where the question came from, she
explained, "It's a game my brother and I used to play to help us see the
other side of things: What's the best and the worst thing about going away to
boarding school, because he had to when he was six. What's the best and the
worst thing about not going to university, because I wanted to but wasn't
allowed."

Mr. Cody looked at her, a contemplative pause that tried to decide
again whether to believe this upperclass reference or not. After a moment,
though, he let it go, as if no conclusion was truly necessary. He asked,
"What's the best and worst thing I've seen here?"