Leslie LaFoy (39 page)

Richard had changed a great deal in the aftermath of the carriage accident. He hadn't laughed very much after that and the light in his eyes had changed, too. It was deeper and cooler and not nearly as quick. And it had been shortly after the accident that the scheme to strip the company had begun. Or at least that's what Jack thought.

Lindsay sighed. Richard had stepped beyond the bounds of propriety to court Abigail Beechum, a married woman. And Abigail had said that she'd had reservations about marrying him because of the way he used the people around him. Lindsay couldn't imagine Richard being so callous, but she didn't doubt the veracity of Abigail's observation. All in all, Lindsay had to admit that there was a distinct possibility that Richard might have been the one to have committed the sin that had triggered a quest for economic revenge. With adult eyes, she could look back at her childhood memories and realize that Abigail hadn't been the first married woman to have been courted by Richard Patterson. A wronged husband might feel humiliated and angry enough to go a long way to achieve retribution. And a crippled man with a wounded spirit would have been seen as an easy mark.

Lindsay watched as Jack's dark hair slipped through her fingers. He didn't know Richard as she did, didn't know how Richard had devoted his life to the MacPhaull Company. She could understand how Jack had come to the conclusions he had. But when the truth was known, Jack would apologize as he'd promised. He was a good man and a strong one, one strong enough to admit his mistakes.

Calmed and certain, Lindsay shifted her gaze beyond him, catching the attention of one of the crewmen. She motioned him over and asked for his assistance in getting Jack
to the bunk in their cabin. It took two burly sailors, but Jack was eventually hefted up and half-dragged, half-carried to his berth. Lindsay followed behind, never more than a step away.

I
T WAS DARK
, but he could still feel the world rolling and heaving beneath him. His stomach lurched and rose in protest, determined to punish him yet again for his decision to buy passage to Boston by sea. Jackson, lying on his side, drew his knees up, just as determined to hold his own against the inner torment. A chill swept over him from head to toe and he shivered hard, drawing a steadying breath through his clenched teeth.

A soft warmth moved to mimic his own shifting position and then nestled more closely against the length of the back of his body. Jackson felt a nuzzling in the space between his shoulder blades as an arm slipped around his waist and drew him even closer. He didn't dare look anywhere but at the open porthole. To shift his head would be to invite another bout of ignobility.

“Lindsay?” he whispered.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked, her voice soft with concern as she rubbed his shoulder again with her cheek. “I've tried covering you with a blanket, but you keep kicking it off.”

“I'm just right,” he replied, burrowing back into the curve of her soft body.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“A little,” he answered, realizing that there was sudden warmth in the center of his chest and that it seemed to have a settling effect on his stomach. Peace slipped over him and his eyelids grew heavy.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Jack?”

“Just keep hanging on to me.”

“I wouldn't let go for the world,” he heard her say as he drifted into a blessedly easy sleep.

J
ACKSON BUTTONED A SHIRT CUFF
and listened to the copper bathtub being taken out of the adjoining room. His own bath had been gone some ten minutes or so; just long enough for him to pull on some clean clothes and make a decision. He waited until he heard the tub bang against the corner of the servants' stairs at the far end of the hotel hallway before he stepped to the door connecting the two rooms he'd rented, and knocked.

“It's unlocked,” Lindsay called from the other side. “And yes, I'm decent.”

With a smile, he turned the glass knob and pushed open the door. Lindsay sat at the small dressing table to the right of the door, brushing her hair. She wore a pale blue silk dressing gown, the color accentuating the fairness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes.

“You look like you feel better,” she said, laying her brush aside and turning on the seat to smile at him.

“I do,” he admitted, absolutely certain that he'd made the right decision. “And you look exhausted. Why don't you go to bed and get some sleep?”

“Because it's not even noon yet,” she laughed, rising and going to the foot of the bed where her valise sat, “and sleeping in the middle of the day is sinfully decadent.”

“Well, if there's anyone who's earned some sinful decadence, it's you, Lindsay,” he pointed out. “Taking care of me as you did, you couldn't have had more than a total of ten hours of sleep in the last three days. You've got to be dead on your feet.”

“I'm fine, Jackson,” she assured him, giving him a smile that, while bright, didn't reach her eyes. “We came to Boston for a purpose and it isn't for me to sleep the day away,” she went on, pulling a chemise and petticoat from the large red leather bag. “I see that you're dressing to go out. Give me twenty minutes and I'll be ready to go with you. Mrs. Beechum relayed your suggestion that I bring comfortable clothes and I did. I won't need any help with lacings, so dressing will be an unusually quick affair.”

Jack shook his head and tried one more time to make her be reasonable. “All I'm going to do is track down Percival Little's address and see if I can't find someone who'll tell me what time of the day the mail's usually brought by there. After that, I'm just going to wander around and get the lay of the land.”

“You're assuming that a carrier will bring it to the address we have for Little, Bates,” she said blithely, continuing to pull items from her bag. “It costs two cents—in addition to the regular postage—to have a postal carrier deliver a letter to a specific address. What if it's simply held at the post office until someone comes to pick it up?”

Damn stubborn woman.
“With thousands of dollars at stake, Lindsay, what's two cents? It'll be delivered by carrier. You can bet on it.”

“I guess we'll see.”

“No,
I'll
see,” he declared, stepping to the side of the bed and yanking down the coverlet and the top sheet. “And then I'll tell you all about it.” He straightened, took one step, caught her hand in his and drew her away from the valise, saying, “C'mon. You're going to bed.”

“Jack,” she protested, trying to draw back. “I'm fine. Honestly.”

He didn't like having to resort to using physical force, but she left him no other choice. Letting go of her hand, he instantly closed the distance between them and swept her up in his arms. She squeaked in surprise and flung her arms around his neck, holding tight.

“I'm hale and hearty again,” he remarked, chuckling as he turned and set her down in the center of the bed. Drawing the bedcoverings up over her long, bare legs, he added, “You're one helluva tough woman, Lindsay MacPhaull, but you've met your match. You might as well quit resisting.”

With a martyred sigh, she rolled her eyes and then flopped backward, her head landing smack dab in the center of the pillow, her arms straight-out from her sides. “There. Are you happy now?”

She was just a tad bit disgusted with him and maybe even a bit peeved, but it only made her that much more stunningly beautiful. Never in his life had he ached so badly with wanting. Happy? That was a matter of degrees. “Reasonably so,” he admitted, drawing the covers up to her shoulders and carefully tucking temptation away. He'd been right that first day; her curves didn't owe a damn thing to any corset.

It took effort to make himself step back from the edge of the bed, but he managed it. “I'm going to lock the doors when I leave. I'll slide the key to yours back under the door so you can have it. But please promise me you won't go out and wandering around on your own. All right?”

“All right, Jack,” she agreed, stifling a hard yawn with the back of her hand. With a slow, almost feline wiggle, she settled her body into the mattress and her head deeper into the pillow. Her eyelids drifted closed.

Jackson stood there marveling at her strength and beauty as his impulses and his common sense engaged in a pitched battle. In the center of it were his memories of awakening aboard ship and always finding himself wrapped in the comfort of Lindsay's arms. And each time he'd drifted back off to sleep, his last conscious thought had been a promise to himself that he was going to hold her the minute he had the strength to do so.

His impulses urged him to lie down beside her and honor
his promise to himself. His common sense held that he had things to do and that Lindsay would be there when he returned. To his frustration, it also reminded him just how easily holding Lindsay could get out of hand. His pulse warmed and skittered at the prospect.

Jackson clenched his teeth and made yet another decision, this one infinitely more difficult than the one to insist Lindsay get some sleep. It was a compromise that pleased neither side of him all that much, but it was the only hope he had of moving off the spot of carpet where he stood.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered, leaning down and brushing his lips lightly over hers. “I'll be here when you wake up.”

A soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Her voice came on a dreamy sigh. “I know.”

It occurred to him, as he resolutely turned on his heel and walked away, that all he'd managed to accomplish was to delay yet another contest between his desire and his sense of good judgment. The latter had won this particular contest as it ultimately had all the others, but Jackson couldn't help wondering just how much more frustration his impulses were going to be able to take.

T
HE STREETS WERE OLD
and cobbled and crowded with noisy vendors and women with shopping baskets hanging from their arms. He threaded his way among the throngs and eventually threw himself on the mercy of a pretty young woman selling eggs. She'd been kind and given him precise directions. Two blocks west of the central market area, he turned north onto the street where Little, Bates and Company was supposed to be found. One look and he knew it wasn't there. Each side of the narrow cobbled street was lined with three-storied structures, some brick, but the majority clapboard in desperate need of paint. There were small businesses on the first level of some; a dry-goods store, a millinery, a less than prosperous-looking chandler's shop. The vast majority of the businesses had called it quits and boarded their windows. People moved up and down the walkways on either side, most seemingly intent on
leaving the area as quickly as possible. Jackson noted the few numbers he could find on the buildings and moved in the direction they indicated he should.

As he neared the place where he knew he wasn't going to find the offices of Percival Little, he met the gaze of a wide-shouldered young man seated on the stone steps beneath a sign that proclaimed the building to be O'Brien's Boardinghouse. The address was there on the sign and it was the same as the one Percy used.

“Hi!” the young man called, waving his hand as he smiled brightly and warmly. “Hi, mister!”

Jackson smiled, recognizing the pure happiness of a simple soul. “Well, hi there, yourself,” Jackson offered in greeting as he stopped in front of the large man-child. “I'll bet they call you Tiny, don't they?”

He beamed and his green eyes lit up. “Do you know them?”

“Nah,” Jackson admitted. “But people aren't all that much different no matter where you're from.”

“I'm different,” Tiny said sadly as his gaze dropped to the scuffed toes of his well-worn shoes.

Jackson felt for him and silently railed at the cruelty Tiny had no doubt endured his entire life. “I can see that,” Jack offered brightly. “You're one of the
good
guys.”

Tiny's head came up and his grin went from ear to ear. “I have a top. Wanna see it?”

“Sure,” Jackson said, sitting down beside him on the steps as Tiny leaned to one side and extracted a wooden top and a long dirty piece of string from his pocket. The paint on the top was almost worn away. Jackson nodded appreciatively as Tiny held out the toy for inspection. “Well, hey, that's a mighty fine top, Tiny. Looks like it's had a lot of spins.”

“I'm good at making it go a long time.” Straightening the string, he asked, “What's your name?”

“I'm Jack, and I'm glad to meet you, Tiny.” At the man's wide smile, Jack nodded toward the top and said, “Would you show me how you make it go?”

“You have to wind it just right, you know. The string has to go around like this, see?” he said, showing Jack as he
wound the string tightly, neatly. “It can't be on top of itself or it won't go right when you pull it.”

“Top spinning's a fine art,” Jack observed.

“I'll teach you if you want to learn.”

The enthusiasm of the offer was touching and Jack instantly knew the course to take. Lying was sometimes the kindest thing a person could do for another. “Why, Tiny, that's real kind of you. But you gotta be nice to me if I do it wrong. I've never been very good at it.”

“If I'm not nice to you, you'll go away, and I don't want that to happen.” He went back to winding the string as he added, “It's nice to have someone to talk to while I sit here and wait.”

“What are you sitting here waiting for?”

“The mailman.”

Jack blinked, hardly believing his incredibly good fortune. “Oh, yeah? Does he bring you letters very often?”

“Every week. He brings me my rent money. I take it straight to Mrs. O'Brien so nothing happens to it. There's extra money, too. Mrs. O'Brien keeps it for me so I can have clothes and other things when I need them.”

“That's good,” Jack offered, thinking that Mrs. O'Brien was a kind woman. “A fella doesn't want to find himself without shoes and with nowhere to live.”

“And I have to live here or I won't be able to do my job.”

“You have a job? What do you do?”

“I wait for the mail.”

Jack grinned. “That's a pretty good job. How'd you get it?”