Under Her Brass Corset (3 page)

“Help?” Jasper laughed, adoring Abigail’s sense of compassion and her naïveté. “You don’t really think he was in need of help, do you?”

“I don’t understand.” Her eyes sparkled with irritation and an inquisitiveness that suggested she was open to hearing about the realities of make-believe. It gave him a bittersweet feeling of possibilities he wanted to explore.

“The man was a troll, the kind you’ve heard about in fairy tales. He wasn’t looking for a handout. His mission was to test us.” Although Jasper suspected it was more an assessment of him rather than Abigail.

“Trolls don’t exist,” she scoffed. “And even if they did—what kind of test?”

“A troll can give a person bad luck if he’s of a mind to. If I didn’t give him any money, I’m afraid he would have left behind the worst for us, especially you, since this
is
your house. Now he cannot.”

“I didn’t hear anything about luck in the conversation. How do you and he know you were talking about the same thing?” The words were a backdrop to the beautiful way her mouth moved.

He’d heard her talk many times over the years. This was different. Rather than his distance from the conversation, she was looking up, directing every word to him. A blend of sweetness and heat from her breath dusted his face. He recognized the sated calmness of her expression. It wasn’t as if he had seen her naked or engaged in sex with her fiancé. Yet he knew the look—it was reminiscent of the afterglow, making her eyes sparkle and her cheeks redden. A bout of protectiveness, a twinge of jealousy, he had half a dozen emotions for the way he’d felt then, and they were even stronger now. He liked her too much. Resentment for his immorality reared as he thought of the heartache he would suffer when he walked away.

“How do you know he’s a troll and not just an unattractive, ungainly small man?” She pursed her lips, showing a wavering inflexibility to accept reality. The pucker hypnotized him as he considered how to soften her stubbornness with a kiss.

“I know trolls,” he answered, focusing on the topic instead of the pink pliability of her lips. “A long time ago, I ran into some trouble and I needed a place to stay until the matter was straightened out. A friend introduced me to one of their kind, and I was invited to stay in the catacombs.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Her question surprised him. Had he taken her argument wrong? Did she believe in trolls and fairies and all things magical?

“I’m sorry, that was rude. Of course it’s none of my business,” she said when he didn’t immediately reply. “And for your information, the catacombs under the city are uninhabitable.”

“No need for apologies, you don’t know me,” he replied. “It’s natural to question my claims.”

He didn’t like the hint of narrow-minded thinking. Abigail once had an imaginary friend when she was six. She talked to the invisible person just as she talked to him now. For Mr. Humphries to smother her openness to accept anything outside the mundane realm of her life further proved how good it was her relationship with that man was over.

“Just because they are not of public usage doesn’t mean they aren’t occupied, Miss Thatch. I’ve seen them.”

“Where?” Her eyes lit with instant wonder.

“I can only say there are several entrances, mostly under the docks. The tunnels run deep beneath the streets.”

“I knew Randolph wasn’t right.” A look of satisfaction kept a delightful smile on her face. “Not everything is as clear as black-and-white.”

Inspired by her exuberance and eager to keep her curiosity stimulated, he added, “There is a whole world of interesting things to excite you.”

“Yes, I know.” Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth.

No one, not even Isabel, aroused him the way Abigail was, desire glowing in her gaze.

Shaken by the escalating sexual tension, he swept his cape back, hooked a finger in the fob chain of his watch and pulled it out. “It’s late,” he stated, using the ungodly hour as a perfect reason to leave. “I should be on my way so you can go inside and get some sleep.”

“I’m not at all—”

“It was a pleasure to have met you, Miss Thatch.”

“Tired,” she finished.

Jasper hurriedly strolled away before Abigail uttered another word of deterrent to his departure. The urge to hold her threatened to overpower common sense. Her noticeable interest in him weakened his willpower. Even if he should decide to follow his heart, he couldn’t grab her off her porch and tote her to a bed.

“Thank you,” she called in her angelic voice.

The lilting sincerity wrapped him in the comforting warmth he had longed for and it trapped him from leaving completely. He stopped and looked back from the concealment of shadows. His soul ached with longing to know her. In all his life, the women he had associated with were ways to pass the time. Abigail was different. She made him see life as he had never looked at it before. Taking a step toward the beginning of something wonderful, he felt his heart beating with purpose.

Then Abigail turned to go in the house. The darkness had prevented her from seeing his hesitation to leave. In those seconds, Jasper caught himself from succumbing to the easy way out of loneliness. He quickly spun around and marched away, vowing never to return.

The next night, late again, Abigail took the long route home, avoiding the alley. Even knowing that it had been Captain Blackthorn behind her the night before, she remained spooked by his story about fairy-tale creatures living in tunnels under the city.

Trolls.
She laughed, scorning the idea anyone other than criminals lived in a labyrinth of passages under the streets. Out of politeness, she had pretended to believe the captain about the catacombs. Now she looked at the walk beneath her feet and gave it longer thought. When she was small, she had once thought she felt a vibration of the ground in her backyard.

“Not possible,” she said softly.
It couldn’t be true.
She shook her head, thinking how easily the captain had almost made her believe his ridiculous stories. He certainly had a gift when it came to charming her. Although that story about bad luck hadn’t seemed so incomprehensible after he had gone and she’d entered her house. The foreclosure notice the bank had slipped under her door wasn’t good luck.

Abigail slowed as she neared the corner leading to the alley. The gas streetlamp lit the outline of a figure leaning against the building. Her heart pounded in fear. Turning back wasn’t an option, so she kept her head down and her gaze trained to the path before her. She took a deep breath and hugged her satchel to her body. Each step brought her closer to the alley’s opening. She listened for movement, hoping whoever lurked in the shadows stayed there.

Her luck didn’t seem good when the figure sprang from the darkness. Immediately she reached for her skirt, prepared to hoist the garment and retrieve the knife in her boot.

“Miss Thatch, we meet again.” The captain greeted her, his face coming into view as he stepped into the light of the streetlamp.

“Captain Blackthorn.” She let out her startled breath and released her handful of fabric. Relief overpowered her rage at being frightened.

It wasn’t his fault she felt stalked or that her imagination somehow kept getting the best of her. The night or being alone never gave her such worry before her father died. She’d always known how to take care of herself.

“I thought after your fright last night, you might have gone home earlier, avoiding the dark altogether.” He ambled toward her.

“That was my intent, except I got so caught up in what I was doing at work, I lost track of time.”

“If you’ll permit me, I would be delighted to walk you home again.” Gallantly he flung his cloak back and offered her his arm.

That familiar flutter inside her belly returned stronger than ever.

“Thank you.” She bit the inside of her lip, and slipped her fingers around the crook of his elbow. Then a thought occurred to her that she wasn’t sure she liked. She took her hand away, wondering if her infatuation was blinding her to his sinister, ulterior motive. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes.” He grabbed her hand and wrapped it back into place on his arm. “I humbly confess I wanted to see you again. Although I thought I could make this look coincidental. What gave me away?”

Again, her insides flip-flopped and overpowered her qualms of distrust. With anyone else, she wouldn’t have ignored intuitive warnings. With Captain Blackthorn, she wanted to know him under any circumstance.

“You were standing there in the shadows not moving until I was right in front of you,” she informed him.

He glanced back. “You saw me? And here I thought the darkness concealed me. Well, aren’t I the bumbling fool?”

“You’re no such thing.” She squeezed his arm, concluding the captain wanting to see her was no different from her wanting to see him. “I think it sweet, and I’m very happy you went to the trouble.” She let the unconventional timing of his friendship smooth over her nervous second-guessing of his intentions.

He raised a hand to her face and touched her cheek. The flicker of his gaze shooting back and forth from her eyes to her mouth teased her unmercifully. If he were shorter, like Randolph, she might have taken the initiative by leaning in and planting her mouth against his.

“Would you have supper with me?” He asked the very question that was on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes.” She heard the rush of her answer and took a second to gather her senses. He had caused a riot of sensations and feelings to erupt inside her and she wasn’t sure which to address first. She needed a solid plan so that in her eagerness she didn’t frighten him away. “You do mean tonight, don’t you?”

“I do,” he answered. “Of course, I quite understand if you have other plans.”

“No other plans.” She smiled, liking the encouraging way life had surprised her with the hope of happiness. It never seemed possible while she mourned her father. “Might I suggest we dine at my house? I know it’s quite bold of me to ask, but I prefer a quiet setting.”

“Boldness is an exceptionally good trait, Miss Thatch, exceptional indeed. And I understand you are in mourning.”

For a few minutes, they walked in silence. Abigail debated topics. Heavy in her thoughts was the discovery she made the night before. In her sorting and packing in the attic, she had opened a trunk filled with documents. Mostly newspaper articles about her infamous great-grandfather, Blackbeard the Pirate. Also in the stack, she’d found illegible letters with fading ink, a blank map and an unusually made snow globe that didn’t have a base. Inside the perfectly round glass ball was a conglomeration of tiny gears. When shaken, itsy-bitsy sparkling particles of glitter floated in the liquid. The strangest part happened when she sat it on the floor next to the map. The gears began to move and all the glitter coalesced. Then a thin beam of light shot out of the glass, arced and landed like a pointer on the blank map. She had put her hand into the brilliant ray to break it from the fragile parchment and felt real heat. With the use of a magnifying glass, she studied the map and discovered a small smudge of almost transparent glitter smeared on the surface.

By chance, or maybe good luck—neither of which she attributed to the little man whom the captain had called a troll—she’d found a glimmer of hope to change her financial woes.

“Last night, I was sorting out what to keep and what to discard for when I move.” She paused, thinking how best to broach the delicate topic. “And I found a map.”

“A treasure map?” He surprised her by his bluntness.

“Oh, I don’t think it can be that.” She pretended to be shocked by the idea, even though it was her greatest wish for it to be true. “It wasn’t even finished. All that was drawn were shorelines. But I was wondering, maybe being a ship captain, you could look at it and tell me what part of the world it is?”

She had taken the map to the museum and compared it to maps there. She had an idea of where the map led, but a second opinion could never hurt.

“I can try. Still, if there are no landmarks, or symbols, or—”

“There is a design of a sixteen-pointed star in the bottom right corner with an
N
at the top,” she interrupted. “I assume that means north.”

“It’s called a compass rose, and yes, the N is for north.” He stopped at the tall iron gate to her yard. “That’s not much. Is there anything else?”

“No.” She took the large skeleton key from the cluster at her waist. She didn’t usually lock the gate, but the vain attempt at keeping out the bank officials gave her the satisfaction that at least they couldn’t leave any more notices under her door.

From lack of use, the rusty mechanism gave her trouble.

“May I?” The captain’s hand slipped under hers to take over the task.

For the briefest second, she basked in the warmth of his touch. Then she pulled away and let him unlock the gate. He flipped the latch with an unnatural ease. When he handed her the key, his sleeve rose, showing his wrist. An inked design on his skin caught her attention.

Tattoos came in as varied shapes, sizes and designs as there were people in the world. She had a fondness for them more than most, and just before her engagement to Randolph she managed to find a man to ink one on her. She chose the outside of her thigh. The discreet location meant no one could accidentally see it. The exciting experience overshadowed the discomfort of the needle. Once the man finished injecting the pigments under her skin, she was pleased.

“Do you have many tattoos?” she asked, wondering what he’d say to discover she had one too.

“A few.” He pushed the gate and held it open for her to walk through first.

She looked again at the marking. “Is it a Celtic knot?” Unable to resist, she touched his wrist.

He moved over and held the gate with his body, and pushed back his sleeve to expose the intricate design.

“I like it.” She headed up the steps of her porch.

It didn’t take her long to decide that maybe if she gave him a little more information, he’d be able to help her figure out the map. Besides, her find wasn’t of value unless she sorted out the particulars.

“Last night I spent hours sorting through the trunks, picking out mementos of my childhood, and keeping anything related to my mother,” she started. “And then I found a trunk that apparently belonged to a distant great-grandfather. I undid the latches and straps and came up with a pile of letters, newspaper articles and a map. There’s nothing indicating where it’s supposed to be, and I’m really curious to know the location.”

“Why? If the map is unfinished, what difference would it make?”

Unwilling to speak of her desperate wish to find a cache of hidden treasure, she answered, “I work in a museum and these sorts of things have always fascinated me. It’s why I’m always leaving the museum so late in the night.”

She automatically handed her house key to the captain. While he unlocked and opened the door, she waited anxiously for his response.

His simple, “I see,” put a damper on her enthusiasm.

“Wait here a second while I get a lamp lit.” She rushed forward, doubly nervous. Not only were her desires strong for him, she had let out information about what might be a great find. “I wouldn’t want you tripping over any of my packing crates.”

She moved instinctively toward the table. Something on the floor tripped her and she caught herself from falling. She found the box of stick matches lying on the table, struck a match, then lifted the glass chimney on the lamp and touched the burning match to the wick.

“Oh no,” she gasped, staring at the mess on the floor.

“Miss Thatch?” The captain grabbed her arm and lifted her hand to blow out the flame burning close to her fingertips.

She dropped the matchstick in a dish on the table and lit another, rushing to light the gas lamp on the wall. The larger fixture illuminated the foyer better. She stared in disbelief at the path of destruction—broken bits of knickknacks scattered on the floor.

“When you said the house was a mess, I assumed it an exaggeration,” the captain said over her shoulder.

“I didn’t leave it like this.” She sat her satchel on the foyer table and moved toward the doorway of the parlor. “Someone’s broken into my house.”

A noise overhead turned her gaze to the staircase.

“Wait here.” The captain pulled her back and hurried forward, leaping the steps two at a time, and vanishing from her view at the top.

So much for no bad luck,
she groaned to herself, wondering if the vandalism wasn’t the work of the troll.

“Well?” she yelled after hearing several distant thumps.

The captain didn’t answer. Panic tried to disarm her ability to think. She wrung her hands, and then grabbed the banister.

“Captain, I’m coming up,” she warned, feeling for the knife in her boot, just to make sure she had it on her. Without removing the thin blade, she lifted the hem of her dress and slowly mounted the staircase. Steadily, she climbed one step at a time. A creak under her foot stopped her. She took a breath and started again. The mixed scent of lilacs and roses assailed her near the landing and she imagined her perfumes spilled from their tiny bottles.

“Captain Blackthorn?” she whispered.

The dreadful thought that something had happened to him made her pause and take stock in her actions. Bravery was one thing, foolishness another. Her father’s death had taken some of the spunk right out of her. She turned to go back down and get help. Then footsteps on the attic stairs halted her. She’d never make it out of the house if the robber saw her. If he’d already killed Captain Blackthorn, he’d be desperate. Her stomach twisted with a pang of sickening dread. She yanked her skirt up and grabbed for the ivory handle on her knife. What would her father say to see her carrying the souvenir from India like a weapon? He had to know she’d be extra vigilant with safety after his murder.

“There’s no one up here.” The captain emerged from the dark stairwell.

Her arm already up, raised to strike, put her off balance. She teetered on the top step, not wanting to hurt the captain. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her forward. The knife slipped from her fingers and clunked down several steps.

“I called and you didn’t answer,” she explained, rattled by the near tragedy. “I wasn’t going to…I just thought you were—”

He kept hold, staring at her with fiery blue eyes. Excitement, desire, lust, she tried to pin a favorable emotion on his look. He gently turned her and escorted back down the stairs.

“I didn’t hear you. If I had, I would have eased your thoughts by letting you know I hadn’t found anyone,” he explained. “As for whoever had been here, he did a thorough job in destroying everything he touched.”

At the base of the stairs, sadly the captain’s protective hold around her waist slipped away. She faced the mess on the floor. Broken porcelain figurines lay shattered in a million pieces.

“They were my mother’s.” She stooped and starting picking up the shards.

He knelt beside her and took several large chunks, fitting them together. “Maybe with the help of a little glue, I can repair some for you.”

She looked at him and smiled, appreciating his kind offer, even though they both knew nothing on the floor was salvageable. The idea of the captain staying longer than for dinner had appealed to her from the moment she had met him. Propriety prevented her from blurting out that wish.