Running Wild Page 13

  “Sure enough,” he said. He casually reached for his oars to turn his canoe around. A singularly awkward turn, she noted triumphantly. Perhaps she was a trifle irritated.

  “Of course,” she said, turning her canoe around with utmost grace, “if you require a few more minutes, I do understand.”

  He lifted his dark eyebrows and flashed a wicked grin. “No, ma’am, I’m fine.”

  She scowled. “Yes, so it appears. You know, you might at least feign fatigue.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I’m plumb tuckered out, ma’am. Most likely I’ll need you to tow me back down river.”

  “Oh stop it!” she laughed, and gave his canoe a hard shove with her oar. The canoe rocked.

  Smile evaporating, he dropped the oars and grasped both sides of the canoe. “Easy there—you’ll tip me over!”

  She tilted her head. “You appear fretful, Nicholas.”

  He shrugged as the canoe slowed its rocking. “I’m not such a good swimmer. Not much call for it in the mountains.”

  She raised both her eyebrows. Not a good swimmer? Why then that was the reason for his wariness over this venture, not discomfort with her. Her spirits lifted and bubbled in her chest. “You mean you aren’t invincible, sir? Why, it’s about time I found a chink in your armor.”

  “Gapin’ hole, more like.”

  “Well I am a capital swimmer, so if you fall in, I shall certainly save you.”

  “If I don’t drown you with my thrashin’ about.”

  “Fear not, my chinked-knight! I should first hit you over the head with my paddle!”

  He laughed. “I expect you’d enjoy that.”

  “I would, very much! Now, if you’ve had enough time to rest, we might start our return journey.”

  He shrugged, and his eyes gleamed with devilry. “Didn’t need any rest. But if you’re feeling better. . . .”

  “Oh, that does it! I’m going to beat you back to the boathouse, and you can drown in my wake!” she growled, yanking at her oars. Before he could respond, she was moving swiftly downstream, pulling on her oars as if her life depended upon it. Seconds later she heard the slap of his paddles against the water—a dreadfully inefficient way of rowing. Perhaps, she thought, working harder, she might beat him with form.

  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 ta
ken 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.”

  He helped her up the front steps. “What do we do? Knock? Call the butler?”

  She smiled. “We turn the knob, like this,” she said with an exaggerated movement of her wrist. Generally,” she said when he scowled at her, “Herman sees us first, though.” She stepped inside. “Oh, there you are Herman.”

  Nick followed Star in as the butler, a tall man, about a hundred years old give or take a decade, closed the door behind them. “Good morning, Miss. I trust your rowing went well.”

  “Yes, except, as I’m sure you’ll see, Nich—”

  “Is that you, Star?” Morgan said, coming out of the parlor. It was all Nick could do to suppress a groan. The last person he wanted to see was the daughter of the woman he’d just molested on the street. No, the last person he wanted to see was the father. “Good, you’re back. We’ve received an invitation—Good gracious Nicholas, are you wet? You are! Did the boat overturn? Are you all right?”

  “Just damp, ma’am,” he said, as steadily as he could. He hoped to God that she was enough of a lady not to notice his full condition. “I stumbled getting out of the canoe. If you don’t mind, I’ll go change.”

  “Why, of course. You’ll catch your death in those wet clothes. Herman, send someone up to for Mr. McGraw’s clothing, will you? He’ll need it cleaned.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that,” he said, avoiding eye contact with Star. He could feel her watching him.

  “I expect you’ll wish for some rest as well. Star can get a trifle carried away with her rowing.”

  She chuckled. “Not in this case. He raced me back from the bridge and beat me all to flinders, Mother, without having the good grace to appear even slightly winded.”