Читать книгу Forever and a Day - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 11
ОглавлениеCHAPTER THREE
She Ventures, and He Wins.
—A Comedy Written by a Young Lady (1696)
A MAN OBNOXIOUSLY CLEARED his throat from behind Georgia where she still lingered before Dr. Carter’s desk. “I realize the hour is anything but convenient, Dr. Carter, but I’m asking to depart all the same before I lead a revolt in the hall. None of the goddamn linens in our beds have been tended to in over three days. For those men who have fluids pouring out from more than the usual places, I find it vile and disturbing. You and your minions ought to be hanged for your wretched disregard for humanity. Hanged.”
The harsh British voice startled Georgia into turning to the man. She instinctively pressed the small satchel in her hand against her hip, her eyes jumping from a broad chest up to a taut, masculine face. The man didn’t sound quite as mindless as Dr. Carter had led her to believe.
The Brit, who lingered all but a stride away, glanced down at her and paused. His black hair had been brushed back from his forehead with tonic, giving him the appearance of the distinguished gentleman she had met on the street, but that sizable scab and the large yellowing bruise marring the right side of his cheekbone and square jaw made him look like one of the boys. Dried blood from the day of the accident still spattered parts of his knotted cravat and full sections of his outer gray coat near the width of his broad shoulder.
Merciful God. They had never even washed his clothes. The rest of him appeared to be well scrubbed, though she sensed it was not anything the hospital had bothered with, but something he had insisted on.
Shifting toward her, he searched her face and drew in a ragged breath. “I know you.”
She smiled awkwardly. “Aye. That you do.”
He half nodded. “Yes.” His shaven face flushed. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize anyone would be coming.” Stepping toward her, he reached out and swept up her hand, making her almost drop the satchel that was still pressed in the other one.
Her heart flipped at the base of her throat as he bent over to softly kiss her bare hand.
No one but her Raymond had ever kissed her hand like that. It was the signature of a gentleman who could see beyond the rags. Georgia swallowed against the tightness of her throat and tried to tug her hand loose only to find that the man wouldn’t let go. “Might I…have my hand back? Or do you plan on keepin’ it?”
He glanced up and tightened his hold, that large hand taking complete command of hers.
It was obvious he planned on keeping it.
With a solid twist, she tugged her hand out of his, a rising heat overtaking her cheeks. “I realize things are a bit muddled for you, Brit, but when I ask for somethin’ back, you give it back. Be it a hand or anythin’ else. Agreed?”
He edged closer, his pensive expression gauging her. “I apologize for being unable to remember the details pertaining to our relationship, but are you my wife?”
Her lips parted. Oh, the poor man’s mind had been completely bashed. He didn’t remember her at all, and given his cheeky behavior on the street that day, he probably did have a wife, damn bastard.
Dr. Carter cleared his throat from behind. “Mrs. Crusoe, I recommend you heed my earlier advice of not riling him into a form of paranoia. ’Tis best.”
Mrs. Crusoe? Georgia swung toward the man and pointed at him. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no. There isn’t goin’ to be any of that.”
“Mrs. Crusoe.” Dr. Carter’s voice dropped to a low warning. “I hold you responsible for his health and his delicate state of mind for as long as he is in your care. I will say no more.”
Oh, this couldn’t be right. How could feeding into a man’s delusions be responsible? It wasn’t! She swiveled back, intent on settling this before she took him home. “Never you mind him, Brit. You and I most certainly aren’t married. In truth, I barely consider us friends.”
“You barely consider us friends?” His mouth tightened as he continued to stare. “That isn’t at all what I remember.”
She quirked a brow. “And what exactly do you remember?”
He shifted his scabbed jaw and glanced toward Dr. Carter before recapturing her gaze. “’Tis hardly respectable to say, given that we are not married.”
Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
He smoothed his blood-spattered cravat against his throat and set his chin, avoiding her gaze. “Whilst I am pleased that you are here, for I was beginning to wonder if anyone would come, given my inability to remember names, I ask that we save this conversation for another time. Would you be so kind as to return me to my flat? I’m exhausted.”
She paused. “Your flat? You mean you know where it is?”
His brow wrinkled. “Yes and no. I thought it was located on rue des Francs-Bourgeois, but Dr. Carter informed me that we are not in Paris, but in New York. So I suppose the answer is no. I don’t know where my flat is.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. You know where I live, don’t you?”
She tapped her own temple. “If I knew where you lived, Brit, I’d be droppin’ you off right now and thankin’ the good Lord for havin’ saved me from a guilt I’ve no right to feel.”
He eyed her. “I sense there is an animosity between us.”
“You’d be sensin’ right, given what you wanted out of me before you earned that knock to your head.”
“I see.” He blew out a pained breath and muttered, “I suppose that leaves me to find myself a hotel, as I am not one to perpetuate arguments I cannot even remember.” He paused and glanced down at himself, patting his coat pockets. “Did I not have a pocketbook? How am I to pay for anything?”
Dr. Carter gathered several ledgers from his desk, organizing them. “Your pocketbook is already accounted for, Mr. Crusoe. How are you feeling?”
“Aside from these damnable headaches, I feel remarkably well. Better.”
“Good. ’Tis my hope that the headaches will fade in time. Try to rest.” Dr. Carter rounded the desk with a stack of ledgers in hand. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I intend to retire early tonight and call upon an acquaintance of mine who happens to be the owner of the New-York Evening Post. Perhaps we can get this story into tomorrow’s paper, seeing it has yet to print. Given its popularity, I’m certain other newspapers will follow suit. We’ll commence there and hope for the best.” He inclined his head and strode out of the office.
Georgia swiveled toward the Brit, who quietly observed her with marked curiosity. His gaze drifted down the full length of her and paused on her boots, which peered out from beneath her ankle-high skirts.
“The leather on your boots is almost white,” he commented. “You should buy yourself a new pair.”
He was like a child. “How very observant. If only I could afford a new pair.” Stepping toward him, Georgia grabbed up his gloved hand and pressed his satchel into it. “This is yours, Brit. It has all of your money in it, so I suggest you keep it safe ’til we get across town.”
He hesitated, shifting the satchel in his hand before slipping it into the inner pocket of his gray coat. “Why do you keep calling me Brit?”
“Because that’s what you are. A Brit.”
“I would rather you call me Robinson. I don’t like the way you say Brit.”
“Not to disappoint you, Brit, but I usually call people whatever I want. ’Tis my born right as a United States citizen. I may not be able to vote, but no man is goin’ to tell me I can’t use my tongue.” Georgia paused and pointed to his sleeved coat, noting that the band was missing from his arm. “You had a mournin’ band. Did you lose it? Or did you strip it?”
He glanced down at his arm. “I was wearing a…mourning band?”
“That you were. Right there on your arm.”
He glanced up, searching her face, his features taut and panicked. “Who died?”
Georgia’s stomach dropped all the way down to her toes as she met his gaze. There was an aching vulnerability lingering within those handsome gray eyes that seemed to depend on her for everything. It made her want to give the man everything.
She softened her tone. “I don’t know who died. All I know is that you were wearin’ one when I last saw you.”
He dug his gloved fingertips into the biceps of his right arm and winced. “Why can I not remember?”
“Try not to worry. Rememberin’ is overrated, anyway. Trust me. I wish there was a way I could forget half my life.” She drifted closer, sighed and leaned toward him to get a better look at what needed to be stripped before they crossed into the other side of town. She fingered the sturdy material on the seam of his morning coat. The fine fabric had to be worth ten dollars without the stitching. “Heavens, you’re a walkin’ merchant cart waitin’ to be robbed. We’ll have to alter your appearance ’til we’re able to get rid of these clothes.”
He stiffened, lowering his gaze to her probing fingers. “And what is wrong with my appearance or my clothes?”
“Everythin’.” She sniffed, the heat of his muscled body wafting the subtle fragrance of tonic and penny shaving cream. “I hate to say it, but you even smell wrong.”
He blinked rapidly. “Are you suggesting that I bathe? Because I just did. Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Nah, I’m suggestin’ quite the opposite. I only bathe and scrub once every two days and even that’s considered a bit much in the eyes of where I live. But then again, I’m a woman and you’re not. In my ward, if a man starts playin’ with too much soap and tonic, he’s likely to get a reputation for wearin’ pink garters.”
“I don’t wear pink garters.”
“I didn’t say you did. But that won’t keep the boys from sayin’ it. And you sure as hell don’t want a byname with the word pink in it. Now let’s get rid of some of these fineries, shall we?” She tapped at his cravat. “Off with it.”
He paused, his gaze trailing down to her lips. “Does this mean there is no further need for a hotel?”
Georgia nervously smoothed her hands against the sides of her calico skirts, sensing he was still confused as to who she was. Wetting her lips, she chose her words carefully, hoping not to send him into a panic. “I can only apologize for Dr. Carter. He means well, but it isn’t right makin’ you think I’m someone I’m not.”
His brows flickered. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m not your wife or your mistress or whoever you think I am. The name is Georgia. You know, like the state. You can call me that, if you want, but I prefer Mrs. Milton until we get to know each other more.” She gestured toward his throat. “Now remove your cravat.”
He stared her down. “If I ever decide to undress for you, Mrs. Milton, it won’t be upon your command but mine.”
She glared at him. “Oh, now, don’t you get cheeky with me, Brit. I’m not askin’ you to undress for my sake. I’m askin’ you to undress for yours. We can’t have you prancin’ about in silk over on Orange Street. You’ll get dirked. Now take it off.”
He stepped back. “Absolutely not. What would your husband say, Mrs. Milton?”
Her lips thinned. Perhaps it was best he thought Raymond was alive. It would keep him from thinking she was up for a toss. “The man would say, for the good of your own breath, you’d best take off the cravat.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t. He would say, ‘If you take anything off in the presence of my wife, you will cease to breathe.’”
She let out an exasperated laugh. “As amusin’ as I find you and this, all omnis cease runnin’ in an hour. Do you want to walk fifteen blocks in the dark? I don’t. Now take off the cravat. Even with it bein’ spattered with blood, it makes you look too much like a gentleman.”
“I should probably point out that I consider myself to be a gentleman.”
She quirked a brow, challenging him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I thought you were a Salé pirate. Isn’t that what you told Dr. Carter?”
He shifted his jaw and glanced away. “I cannot trust what I do or do not remember.”
“Which is why you’ll have to trust me over yourself, dear sir, because I’m not the one sufferin’ from memory loss.”
He muttered something and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He winced, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Remind me not to touch my head.”
Georgia softened her tone, hoping a motherly approach would get him to cooperate. “We really ought to remove that silk from around your throat. Won’t you take it off? For me? Please?”
Stepping closer, she reached up and forcefully unraveled his silk cravat, trying to figure out how the damn thing was supposed to come off. The fabric kept sliding against her fingers like cool water. Their gazes locked and she paused, trying to steady her breathing.
He jerked outside of her tugging hands and shifted his broad shoulders, stepping back. “I’m not at all comfortable with you touching me. You are, after all, a very attractive woman and I would hate for this to progress beyond anything either of us would be able to control.”
She set her hands on her hips. What a cad. “If I were lookin’ to progress things, Robinson, I’d be goin’ straight for the trousers. Rest assured, a man’s throat never once made me moan and I highly doubt yours will, either.”
He stared at her, his expression strained. “Refrain from talking to me in such crass tones.”
“I wouldn’t have to talk at all if you were cooperatin’. Now cease bein’ so damn stupid. I’m here to help.” She stepped back toward him, reached up and forcefully finished yanking his cravat off. She tossed it, letting it cascade to the floor.
His gloved hand jumped up to cover his exposed throat, his shaven face flushing. “I really don’t understand why—”
“Silk just isn’t somethin’ men in my parts wear. Men there are poor. Some of them are very poor. There’s no need to give them a reason to hate or rob you. You bein’ an uppity Brit is goin’ to be bad enough. Men will probably fist you based on your accent alone.”
“Oh, and you plan on taking me there?” He lifted a brow. “Shall I thank you for your overall lack of concern for me now? Or later? After I get fisted?”
She rolled her eyes. “You needn’t worry. I’ll see to it you fall under the protection of the boys.”
“The boys?” He lowered his chin. “You intend on placing me under the care of your children? I assure you, madam, my mind isn’t that far gone.”
She gurgled out a laugh. He was so bizarrely adorable. “Nah, it isn’t like that at all. Though sometimes I do wonder.” She glanced toward the open doorway and lowered her voice. “They’re men who act like boys, so I call them boys, see? They’re known for havin’ a black reputation, and believe me, they live up to it, but I know how to yank their collars. I’m just makin’ sure nothin’ happens to you prior to my yankin’ those collars.”
“And who are these men to you?” He eyed her. “Are you involved with any of them?”
“Not in that way, no. They’re more like flea-ridden dogs I can’t get rid of.” She scanned his clothes again and sighed. “I’ll have Matthew loan you some of his clothes. You’re about his size. Give or take a few stones.”
He squinted. “Matthew? Who is that? Your husband?”
“No. My son.”
His lips parted. “You have a son my size? You don’t appear to be a breath over twenty.”
She grinned, tilting her face up toward him. “Thank you for that, but I’m well over twenty. I’m two and twenty.”
He scanned her face. “That still doesn’t make you old enough to have a son my size. He isn’t really your son, is he?”
“Not by birth, no.”
“So whose boy is he?” He leaned in, trailing his gaze to her lips. “And why are you taking care of him?”
She stepped back. “Don’t look at my lips.”
He stepped toward her. “I will keep looking at them until you tell me everything I want to know.”
She scrambled back, sensing that he wanted to do far more than look at them. “He’s Raymond’s boy. All right? Not mine. Raymond’s.”
“And who is Raymond?”
She glared at him. “I’m not about to tell my life story to a man who doesn’t even know his own. Now give me your hand.” She pointed. “We can’t have you wearin’ those gloves.”
He set both gloved hands behind his back and eyed her expectantly. “I don’t intend to cooperate until you tell me who Raymond is.”
“The man is dead,” she bit out. “All right? Now cease actin’ like a bogey and give me your hand.” She forcefully grabbed his arm and jerked it out from behind his back, tugging it up toward her. Digging her fingers beneath the cuff of his linen shirt, she peeled the fitted leather glove from his large hand and tossed it toward the desk.
Without any resistance, he quietly watched her strip the glove from his other hand. His large and remarkably smooth hand tightened possessively around her own.
She paused, entranced by the heat of his hand penetrating her skin. Her body seemed to drift, while her mind remained anchored and fully aware of him and that hand. There was something very different about his touch. Whilst incredibly firm and strong, it was also…soft. Slowly turning his large palm upward, she ran the tips of her calloused fingers against the smoothest masculine palm she’d ever encountered. It was as if he had never touched anything with those hands.
Georgia glanced up. “You most certainly aren’t a pirate.”
“And how do you know? I could be.”
She lifted his hand and tilted it palm upward for him to better see. “Look at your hands.”
He hesitated and lowered his gaze to the hand she held up.
She traced her fingers toward the length of his long fingertips and back toward his large smooth palm. “They’re untouched. See? If you were a pirate, you would have handled ropes and crates, which would have covered your hands in calluses. Given their softness, ’tis obvious your only trade is money.” She snorted. “That would explain why you couldn’t remember how to shave or knot a cravat. You had servants doin’ it for you.”
His mouth tightened as he tilted his hand against hers, intently observing it. “They are smooth, aren’t they?” He sounded disappointed.
She gently shook his hand, not wanting him to feel shame in what he was. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. ’Tis a blessin’, not a curse, I assure you. ’Tis also the truest mark of wealth there is.”
He glanced up. “So I am a man of wealth?”
“With hands like these and silver buttons to match, you most certainly are.” She lowered her voice in warning, squeezing his hand. “Whatever you do, though, Brit, don’t tell anyone, and don’t parade that money in your satchel. You can’t be trustin’ anyone but me from here on out. You hear?”
His fingers curled and tightened around her hand, squeezing his warmth against her own. “And who are you to me?” A huskiness lingered in his uncertain tone as he searched her face. “Why do you care?”
He reminded her so much of herself when she was younger, unwilling to trust but having no other choice but to trust. Although her only family, her dear da, had disappeared many years ago for reasons she would never know, she’d see to it that this man’s family didn’t suffer in the way she had. Someone out there loved him and missed him, and she would ensure he was returned back into their arms where he belonged.
“Consider me a friend who understands what it’s like to be dependent on the love and generosity of others.” She slid her hand from his and pointed to that double row of silver buttons. “Those will have to come off, too.”
He glanced down at his waistcoat, his brows coming together. “What? The buttons?”
“Yes, the buttons. They’re silver, aren’t they?”
“I suppose they are. What of it?”
“It means you’re likely to be robbed of them.”
He fingered one of the buttons. “But they’re attached to my waistcoat.”
“Not for long they aren’t. Let me show you how it’s done over on my street.” She yanked her full skirt up to the knee, exposing the leather holster attached to her thigh, and slid a small blade out before letting her skirts drop again.
He stepped back, his eyes jumping toward the blade. “What are you doing?”
“Trust me.” She grabbed his waist and dragged him back over toward herself. “I only want the buttons.”
He grabbed hold of her wrist, twisting the blade hard and off to the side, away from himself. “All I ask is that you keep it pointed away from me.”
“Oh, cease your brayin’.” She jerked her wrist from his grasp, ignoring the sting. Firmly holding the top silver button away from the embroidered fabric of his waistcoat, she slashed the threads beneath it, catching the button with her other hand.
He searched her face, the resistance in his body waning as the edge of his full mouth quirked. “I like you.”
“Oh, do you, now?” she tossed up at him. “Let’s just see how long that lasts. Very few men like a woman with a quick tongue.”
Holding her gaze, his large hands curved around her waist, causing her to stiffen. He leaned in close, despite the blade in her hand pointing toward him, and asked softly and adoringly, “Mrs. Milton, are you really married? Or are you pretending to be? Because I find you endearing. Tongue, mind and all.” He paused and added, “I also find you to be incredibly attractive. Incredibly.”
The man had apparently lost the last of his mind and his ability to censor his own thoughts. She lowered her gaze, the heat of those lingering hands making her stomach tingle. “I’m not married anymore,” she admitted, her throat tightening at the thought of Raymond. “I was, when I was younger, but he died.”
“Ah.” His hands drifted away from her hips. “Did you love him?”
She edged back and half nodded. “Yes. Very much.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She half nodded again. “Thank you.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Were you and he ever in Paris? Is that where I may know you from?”
She glanced up at him. Her and Raymond in Paris? Oh, now she’d heard it all. Raymond hated the French about as much as he hated the mayor and his politics. Whilst she? She only knew about Paris from Raymond. About all the gardens the Parisians had, the rows of palaces that once belonged to kings, the way they cobbled their streets and even had churches that were almost as old as God himself. “Raymond had been in Paris on business in his younger years when he still had money. As for me, I’ve never once lived a breath outside of New York. I was born here, and though I’m tryin’ to move west, I’ll most likely die here and be buried with a wooden marker that’ll rot away and make everyone forget I was born a redhead.”
He averted his gaze. “You are far too young to be speaking in such gray tones.”
“Where I live, gray is about the only color one sees. But one gets used to it, especially if it’s all they know.” She focused once again on his waistcoat. “Now hold still.”
She leaned in, working the blade against the threads behind each button. She quickly detached all the buttons, catching them in her palm one by one, until his waistcoat hung open, exposing the whitest and brightest linen shirt she’d ever glimpsed. It was as if it had been snatched right off the tailor’s bench.
She released him, shoving all six buttons into the stitched pocket just beneath her left arm. “There.”
Gathering her calico skirts back up, she slid the blade securely back into the holster and let her skirts drop. She paused, sensing he was staring. Having been surrounded by men since she was nine, shortly after the death of her mum, she’d lost all sense of modesty around those who were used to seeing limbs being bared and rarely stared. But this man made her aware of just how important modesty was. It kept a girl out of trouble when it counted most.
She awkwardly glanced toward him. “You didn’t have to look.”
“I couldn’t very well help it.” His jaw tightened as he met her gaze. “Do you lift your skirts for all the boys?”
She pursed her lips, attempting not to be entirely insulted. “Only the ones I intend to gut. So I suggest you mind your tongue.”
“Don’t you worry. I intend to mind my tongue and my eyes.” He glanced away, jerking his now-open waistcoat against his linen shirt and abdomen. “I must say, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”
She paused. “The prodi-what?”
“Prodigal,” he provided.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Wasteful. Prodigal means wasteful.”
“Oh, does it, now? Well, I never heard of the word.”
“And whose fault is that? Not mine, to be sure. Buy yourself a dictionary, my dear.”
She glared at him for being so rude. “If I could afford one, I would. Though I really wouldn’t be surprised if you just made that word up in some pathetic attempt to impress me.”
He raked a gaze down the length of her and smirked. “I can think of a dozen other ways to go about impressing you, Mrs. Milton, and making up words doesn’t readily come to mind.”
She squinted. “You mean it really is a word?”
“Yes, of course it is a word.”
“Huh.” She eyed him. “I’m confused.”
“About what? The word?”
“No.” She waved toward him. “How is it you remember prodi-whatever but can’t remember much else?”
He paused. “That I don’t know.” He shrugged, averting his gaze. “I just remember words, that is all. I see them. I hear them. I cannot readily explain why, but I do. And as I said, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”
She lowered her chin. “Before your tears flood this room and the city, I ought to point out that a silver button can be pawned for as much as seventy-five cents apiece over at the local junk dealer. Over four dollars was dangling off your chest for the world to see. Never give anyone a reason to fleece you, I say, or they will.” Stepping back, she eyed his appearance again. “You still aren’t rough enough. You shouldn’t have shaved.”
She bit her lip and glanced around, wondering what she could do without altogether ripping the seams of his outfit apart. She supposed she could soil it, but with what?
She paused. Coffee. How fitting.
Glancing toward Dr. Carter’s desk, she plucked up the porcelain cup of coffee he’d left on the desk and dipped her finger into it to ensure it wasn’t hot. It wasn’t. “I don’t think Dr. Carter will mind. Hold still. Here’s a toast to what should have been.” Turning back to him, she flung the entire contents of the dark, gritty liquid onto the front of his linen shirt and open waistcoat.
He sucked in a breath and jumped back, his hands popping up into the air. He frantically swiped at his wet, stained clothing and glared at her, his dark hair falling from its neat, brushed state. “Damn you thrice into the pits of hell, woman.” He gestured rigidly toward himself, his face taut and his eyes ablaze. “Why did you think it necessary to ruin a perfectly fine linen shirt?”
He was certainly prim for a man who thought he was a pirate. He couldn’t even swear right. “We’re improvisin’, is all. No one’s linen shirts look that snowy white where I live.”
He gave her a withering look. “Forgive me for having a clean shirt. Shall I rip the seams a bit for you?”
She heaved out a breath. “If you can’t survive bein’ stripped by a woman and havin’ coffee thrown at you, you most certainly won’t survive where I’m takin’ you. You’re over six feet tall. Act like every inch counts, will you? Be a man.”
He released his shirt and stalked toward her, veering in tauntingly close. “’Tis damn well hard to be a man around you. Damn. Well. Hard.”
She rolled her eyes and huffed on her way out of the office.
Men. They were all so self-righteous no matter what their upbringing or how hard you hit them on the head.
