Bride of the High Country Page 12

  He looked taken aback by her outburst. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded handkerchief and thrust it toward her. “I didn’t intend to upset you.”

  “Oh? Since when?”

  “There’s no need to cry. We’ll figure this out.”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “Then your eyes are leaking.”

  Through a wet blur, she saw him take a step toward her. She lurched back, knocking her head against the bed frame. If he touched her, she would scream. Shatter into a thousand sharp pieces. Lose the last of her strength.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  “Margaret—”

  “Just leave. Now.”

  “But I—”

  “Get the hell out of my room!”

  She expected him to be shocked by her coarse language. She certainly was. But he simply stood there, frowning and looking every bit as tired and confused as she was. With a deep sigh, he put the handkerchief into the inside pocket of his rumpled frock coat, then let his hand fall back to his side. “No,” he said. “I can’t leave you here unprotected.”

  A wave of utter hopelessness swept over her. Feeling the sting of more tears, she pressed a shaking hand over her eyes. God, You win. Take me now. I can’t bear more of this.

  She heard him move past, then the door closing. When she took her hand away, the room was empty and he was gone. She blinked. Had he truly left her? Relief gave way to astonishment—then indignation. With Smythe out there?

  That lying cad.

  Furious all over again, she was stomping over to lock the door when it swung open in her face. “What do you want?” she demanded as he stepped inside, not sure whether to be relieved or angry that he had returned.

  “Money. Just until I can wire my banker. I left right after the wedding and didn’t have time to pack or go by the bank.” He glanced at the valise sitting on the floor where she’d dropped it. “I know you have money in there with all the stock certificates.”

  “Now you’re stealing from me?”

  He gave her a look. “A brief loan. I’ll pay you back.”

  Muttering every Irish insult she remembered from her days in Five Points, she yanked her reticule from the valise, counted out three double eagles and several half eagles, and slapped them into his hand. “You certainly will repay me,” she said nastily, enjoying even this inconsequential power over him. “With interest.”

  “So . . .” He showed his fine teeth in a broad grin. A weary imitation of that startling transformation that had caught her off guard that day in the carriage. “You’re asking me to come back, then?”

  “With my money.”

  “Your husband’s money.”

  She started to argue the point, but he had turned away to open the door. “Lock up behind me,” he ordered, checking the hall. “I’ll just be down the way, talking to the porter. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.” He took a step, hesitated, then without looking at her added, “And by the way. In case anyone asks, we’re eloping.”

  Eloping? Before she could respond to that absurdity, he slipped into the hallway and closed the door in her face.

  Seven

  Tait found George sorting through extra bedding in a small alcove at the front of the car. “That man you mentioned earlier—Miss Hathaway’s brother—is he still in the smoking compartment?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir. I saw him move earlier to the Parlor Car at the end of the train.”

  “When’s the next stop?” Perhaps that’s where Smythe would make his move. Tait hoped so. And once he dealt with that threat, he could safely get Margaret—Lucinda—off the train in the morning.

  The porter studied the clock on the wall. “Just over an hour, sir. Water stop in Cardwell’s Crossing.”

  “A big town?”

  The Negro shook his head. “Maybe two streets. Nice place, though. Friendly folk.”

  “How long will we be there? I need to pick up a few things if they have a store.” He motioned vaguely at his rumpled attire. “I left in a bit of a rush.”

  It was apparent by his expression that the question confused the porter. People rarely left the train at a water stop, Tait guessed. Especially at night.

  “Twenty minutes at most, sir. Just long enough to fill the tender. But I’m afraid the store will be closed. In fact, the whole town will be shut for the night. Perhaps you’d best wait until we arrive in Harrisburg tomorrow morning. We’ll be there for almost an hour to load coal.”

  That’s where Smythe would strike, then. Bigger place. More resources. Damn. Tait wanted this over. Now.

  In a voice carefully devoid of emotion, George said, “Shall I lower the other berth in Miss Hathaway’s compartment, sir? The bed is already prepared.”

  Tait hesitated. He saw honesty and a willingness to help in the curious brown eyes, but also a growing suspicion. No dimwit, this George. Well spoken, educated, a bright future ahead of him. Tait decided to take a chance.

  “Here’s the thing, George. Miss Ham—Hathaway—is my wife. Or soon will be. We’re eloping. And her brother, the man in the Parlor Car, is against the union. So rather than cause a ruckus, I’d prefer he not know I’m on the train. Or Miss Hathaway, either.”

  “But I already told him a lady by her description was on board.”

  “Tell him you were mistaken.”

  George frowned.

  Seeing the deception didn’t sit well with him, Tait tried to make it more palatable. “As you probably guessed, I didn’t pay for a private sleeping compartment.” He pulled several coins from his pocket. “I figure it’s a lot more expensive than seats in the coach cars, and I don’t want you getting into trouble because of that. I hope this will cover the difference in the fares and any inconvenience to you.” He handed over two twenty-dollar gold pieces—at least twice the amount required.

  George stared at the double eagles in his pink palm, probably more money than he’d ever held at one time. “Well . . . I . . .”

  “Thanks, George. I appreciate it.” Continuing before the fellow could refuse, Tait quickly added, “I haven’t eaten all day. Since I’d prefer not to run into Miss Hathaway’s brother in the dining room, I was hoping you could bring me a plate. Or two. Whatever’s available.” He held out a five-dollar half eagle. “I’d be most grateful.”

  This time George nodded. Slipping the money into his pocket, he looked up with a broad smile. “Yes, sir, I’ll tend to it straight away. Shall I bring it directly to your room?”

  “Good man. One last thing.” He gave a hopeful grin. “You don’t happen to keep a supply of toiletries on board, do you?”

  Happily, George did. A packet containing a comb, a tiny cube of soap, a little folding brush for his teeth, and a small tin of tooth powder. No razor. Delighted, Tait gave George a friendly clap on the shoulder and headed back down the swaying hallway to the men’s lavatory.

  Ten minutes later, he returned to the compartment, combed, washed, and smelling like peppermint tooth powder. A vast improvement.

  Margaret—or Lucinda—as she now called herself, actually looked relieved to see him when she opened the door. Maybe having Smythe around was a good thing. At least it would give Tait an excuse to stay close to her.

  “Did you see him?” she asked as he locked the door.

  “George?”

  “Smythe.”

  “No. But I wasn’t looking.” He moved to the couch across from hers and sat down with a yawn. He was so weary he almost didn’t care that he’d be sleeping in his clothes again. Or that a beautiful, desirable woman who was strictly off-limits would be sleeping only a few feet away from him.

  He watched her pace the small room, admiring the way the candlelight brought out the gold in her blond hair and ca
st a lively sparkle to her green eyes. Doyle had no appreciation for what he’d lost.

  A remarkable woman, this chameleon. He doubted he’d even begun to scratch the surface of the layers she hid behind. Maybe tomorrow, while they waited for the train to reach Harrisburg, he would get answers to the questions plaguing him.

  “I didn’t have time to pack before I left Manhattan.” He rubbed a palm over his bristly cheek, then looked down at his wrinkled clothing. “This is all I have to wear. When we stop in Harrisburg tomorrow morning, I’d like to purchase extra garments. And a hat. I want you to go with me.” He would much prefer luring her off the train with the ruse of a shopping excursion than dragging her off kicking and screaming. And if Smythe followed them and made his move, so much the better. Tait had no doubt he could handle an older man with a shorter reach. He’d made money proving it every week for almost two years.

  “You don’t know how to purchase your own clothing?”

  “I don’t like leaving you here alone with Smythe lurking about.”

  She stopped pacing. Her pretty eyes widened. “Lurking about?”

  An ingenious phrase. Guaranteed to strike fear in any woman’s heart. Even this formidable female. “I’ll watch over you, Margaret. You’ll be safe.”

  “Lucinda. Safer with you than on a crowded train with the porter nearby?”

  “Most of the passengers will step off to stretch their legs, and George will be busy cleaning the compartments. He won’t have time to keep an eye on you.”

  “But—”

  “Just trust me, will you?” Jesus. The woman would argue with the devil, himself. Where did she get the energy?

  She started to say something more—something he probably didn’t want to hear, judging by her mulish expression—when a knock on the door sent her spinning around with such a look of pure terror Tait wondered again what the fellow, Smythe, might have done to her.

  “It’s all right,” he said, rising from the couch. “That’s George with my supper.” But as a precaution, he motioned her out of the way in case it wasn’t George, then asked who it was before he unlocked the door.

  It was George, bearing a tray loaded with two napkin-covered plates, two glasses, and a pitcher of water. Tait didn’t know how he kept it all balanced with the constant motion of the train.

  “Wasn’t sure which you would prefer, sir, so I brought one each of the chicken and roast beef. Shall I put it on the table by the windows?”

  Aware of Margaret’s—Lucinda’s—probable embarrassment at being seen alone in a private sleeping compartment with a man who wasn’t her husband, Tait took the tray, smiled his thanks, and sent George on his way.

  “You hungry?” he asked, setting the tray on the table.

  “No.”

  Delighted to hear it, he carried one plate back to the couch, sat, and dug in.

  She puttered around a bit, moving the valise to the end of her bed—did she expect him to dip into it?—and fluffing the dresses hanging on the hooks. Then she sat on the couch opposite his, crossed her arms in that combative way she had, and watched him eat.

  He prayed for silence, and got it. But not for long.

  “You and Doyle are very different,” she observed when he started on the second plate.

  He picked up a glass and took a sip of water, almost spilling it down his vest when the car gave a sudden lurch. “How?”

  “You certainly eat more.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “At the battle of Gettysburg,” he said between bites. “He saved my life.”

  “You were wounded?”

  He nodded curtly, not wanting to talk about that morning Doyle had ridden out of the cannon smoke to cut him down. Even now, the memory of it made that suffocating panic grip his throat.

  “So now you feel you owe him a debt. That explains a great deal.”

  He studied her as he chewed. That thoughtful look didn’t bode well. He didn’t feel up to a cross-examination, and a woman as smart as Margaret—Lucinda—wouldn’t settle for half answers. So to keep her from plaguing him with more questions, he posed one of his own.

  “What’s a runner?”

  She looked away. Crossing one knee over the other—crossed arms, crossed legs, fully shutting him out—she began to swing her slippered foot, sending ripples of motion through the heavy fabric of her robe. Her foot looked narrow and delicate and unexpectedly fragile on such a forceful woman. His shin remembered it well.

  “Doyle didn’t tell you?” she finally asked.

  “I didn’t know to ask.”

  Her foot swung harder. Agitation crackled around her like a building storm front. “They met the immigrant boats when they docked. They pretended to help, offering places to stay, food, the names of doctors willing to treat the poor sick fools who stumbled down the gangplank thinking they were saved and had finally arrived in the land of plenty.”

  Abruptly she turned her head and looked directly into his eyes. What he saw there took him aback—fury, grief, a pain so deep it burst out of her like a scream.

  “Instead, they were stripped of everything,” she went on. “Belongings, hope, pride. But even worse, the men who dealt that final, humiliating, unforgiveable blow were their own Irish countrymen. Like Doyle. That’s what he did.”

  “To you?”

  “To those like me.” Blinking hard, she looked away again. “Good Irish families.”

  He toyed with another bite of chicken, but appetite gone, he set his fork back onto the plate. He knew what Doyle was capable of. He had seen his cruelty often enough and didn’t want to think of it being directed toward this woman. “What happened to yours?” he asked.

  “My father died trying to protect me and my mother.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Eventually, she died, too.” She pressed her lips in a thin, red line that reminded him of a barely healed scar.

  “You must have been very young. What happened after they died?”

  “I survived.”

  Those two words carried such a wealth of despair Tait had to wonder exactly what she had done to stay alive, and what horrors she had been forced to endure at the hands of men like Smythe. But maybe that was a secret he would be better off not knowing. “I’m glad you did.”

  “Are you?”

  How could she doubt it? Was she that blind? Rising, he stacked his dirty plates and utensils on the tray, then leaving the pitcher and glasses on the table, carried the tray to the doorway. “I’ll be stepping down the hall for a moment. Lock the door behind me.”

  “I always do.”

  He stepped into the hall, waited for the click of the door lock, then carried the tray to George’s alcove and continued on to the men’s lavatory.

  Doyle had never told him about being a runner. Was he ashamed of preying on his own countrymen? If so, that might mean there was still a conscience beneath the charm. Tait had his doubts. And those doubts were making him wonder if he was doing the right thing taking Margaret—Lucinda—back to her husband. Which was a clear indication that his own conscience was faltering.

  As he washed his hands, he wondered if he should confront Smythe now, despite being so tired he was almost staggering. If he waited until Harrisburg and something went wrong, that would leave Margaret—Lucinda—unprotected. But if he let Smythe know tonight that Margaret was under his protection and any interference would be dealt with harshly, the man might back off.

  Or he could skip that, and simply toss the bastard off the train tonight. He liked that solution better. Which told him how skewed his thinking had become if he was contemplating murdering a man he had never met, solely on the woman’s word that he was a threat.

  The woman.

  Lucinda.

 
The new name helped. Made him feel like what was going through his mind wasn’t a betrayal of Doyle.

  Although, of course, it was.

  Damnit. Bracing his hands on the counter, he stared at his reflection in the lavatory mirror and there in his eyes saw the truth he’d been avoiding from the first.

  He didn’t want to take her back. He didn’t want Doyle to have her. He could guess what a life with a man like him would do to a spirited, intelligent woman like her. She deserved better.

  Furious with his own weakness where Lucinda was concerned, he dried his hands and returned to the compartment, both appalled and ashamed at how much he was looking forward to spending the night in the company of another man’s wife.

  * * *

  Lucinda let him in, then locked the door behind him. He looked angry, and she wondered what she had done now.

  Finding it easier to sit than stand in the rocking car, she returned to her couch while he lowered the other berth and straightened the bedding. Once he had set it to rights and had propped the ladders against the ends of both beds, he ducked his head and slid into the couch opposite hers. They sat facing each other in silence while his gaze roamed the room, looking anywhere but at her.

  She sensed he was hiding something from her. Something he didn’t want her to know.

  “Tomorrow when we’re in Harrisburg,” he said, ending the long silence, “I don’t want you to leave my side. I’m hoping Smythe will show himself. Then we can find out what he wants and why he’s following you.”

  “Then what? You’ll take me back to Doyle?”

  An odd look crossed his face. “Margaret, I—”

  “Lucinda,” she cut in sharply. “And the threat won’t stop with Smythe, you know. The real danger is from the man who sent him.” The ring leader in all their horrid games. But why? What could Horne possibly want with her now?

  “Do you know who that is?” he asked.

  She debated telling him. But the thought of dredging up that pain and putting words to that horror made her stomach cramp. It was too humiliating. Desperate to change the subject, she asked if he had spoken to Mrs. Throckmorton before he left New York. “She’s very dear to me. I hope she’s recovered.”