Halfway Home, page 8
The sheets were coarse, but clean. They smelled of her scent, which he forced himself to ignore. Half expecting to lie awake, he drifted off within minutes, the sound of Sara’s slow, even breaths offering the comforting knowledge that he was not alone in the night.
God knows, he had never felt more alone in his life than he had these past few days.
*
Sara came awake instantly at the sound of something being dragged across the floor. Her first thought was that she was back home and Titus was forcing open her door against the weight of the dresser she had used as a barricade, before she had moved to the attic.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The man in the bed beside her sat up.
The man in the bed beside her?
Merciful saints alive.
Standing in the doorway, bracketed by the bedposts, three drunks blinked owlishly. One of them started to come in and stumbled on the chair that had been toppled by the sweep of the door. Another one pointed at Jericho, who had somehow come to be sharing the bed with her, while the third one pointed at something dangling from the bedpost.
“Bejasus, boys, she’s armed!” Two of the three drunks began fumbling frantically at their belts.
“But she’s already got ‘er a man! Tarnation, Murph, you said she wuz—”
At the same moment Sara felt the man beside her lunge for the foot of the bed, a shot rang out. Splinters and dust drifted down from the ceiling onto the counterpane. While Sara sat clasping her night shift to her throat, her eyes round as doorknobs, the whole world seemed to fracture and spin around like the kaleidoscope her father had given her for her thirteenth birthday—and that Titus had smashed with a hammer.
She saw a dark shadowy figure dive for the three drunks and shove them through the door. It was Jericho.
Had he truly been in her bed, or had she only dreamed that?
Someone lighted a lamp, and she flinched from the sudden glow. A crowd was already beginning to gather in the hallway. People she had never seen before in her life—and some she had—began pushing their way into her bedroom.
Sara, frightened, angry, confused, and embarrassed, reached for her wrapper, preparing to chase them all outside and lock the door after them. She slid her feet out onto the floor and promptly tripped over a pair of enormous boots that had somehow found their way into her bedroom.
“I never!” gasped one of the women she recognized.
“There, I told you so! And her looking so uppity butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
The Jones sisters. Dear Lord, they were still here. They would talk, and their brother would spread the word up and down the canal, and sooner or later Titus would hear and come after her, and she would never manage to get away again. At least not until her money was all gone.
For the first time since her father had been brought home stiff as a mackerel on the bed of a farm wagon, Sara began to cry.
* * *
Jericho managed to secure the three drunks with the help of a night clerk and a few colorful threats. Dead drunk, they would sleep it off and probably not even remember the event come morning.
But those two old flap-jaws were something else. He didn’t know whether to go to their room and try to bribe them into silence or wring their scrawny necks.
Neck wringing might be more effective. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been the only ones to see what happened. He could hardly silence the whole hotel.
With the best intentions in the world, he had compromised an innocent woman beyond salvation. If her Mr. Ricketts heard the tale, he would likely compound the sin by throwing her over.
Jericho stood in the doorway that led to the Carolina wing, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. God help him, he had never meant her the least harm, yet harm her he had. And the trouble was, she was still vulnerable. After word of what had happened spread throughout the common room—as it was doing right now, and there was no way in hell he could stop it—they would come after her in droves. A woman alone and unprotected—a woman so damned beautiful, with her delicate features and her exotic coloring. There wasn’t a man made who could look on her and not want her.
Jericho paced the hall. He considered waking Turbyfill and asking his advice, then dismissed it. Rafe might be two years older, but in a spot like this, Methuselah himself wouldn’t be of any help.
He eyed the door of room number three. She was all alone in there. Probably flat-out terrified. The key was no good. They’d poked it out of the lock. Every schoolboy knew that trick. There wasn’t a piece of furniture in the room heavy enough to withstand a serious assault, and besides, there was the window. He himself had merely raised the sash and stepped inside without a speck of trouble.
The way he saw it, there was only one course of action an honorable man could take. The damage to her reputation was already done. He would simply have to explain to her man when he came what had happened, and why. He would assure him that the lady was still as untouched as she had been when Jericho had first laid eyes on her, staring out her bedroom window as if she were watching for a ship she suspected had sailed without her.
It came to him then that back there in her bedroom, after the ruckus had started, she had backed up against him for one brief moment as if he were a wall, as if she knew he would protect her. It made him feel proud.
It also made him feel guilty.
On his southerly tack, Jericho passed her room again. A soft sound arrested him in his tracks. Kittens? A mouse?
Oh, hell, she was crying. If there was one thing he had never been able to deal with, it was a weeping female. But when he was the man responsible, there was nothing he could do save bear up under the burden.
“Sara?” He twisted the knob. The little fool had forgotten to lock her door after the place had cleared out. Not that it would have done much good. All the same . . .
Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and charged her with not having the brains God gave a turnip. “Are you hoping for another visitation? Is that why you didn’t bother to lock yourself in?” She wailed again, and Jericho cursed himself for a clumsy fool.
“I c-couldn’t find the k-k-key, and the chair is b-b-broken. . . .”
He removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair, wishing he was somewhere else—anywhere else. “It probably got kicked into a corner. Here now, don’t take on so, it’s all over. You’re safe.”
She cried like a child. Noisily, gulping and wailing and sniffling. It occurred to him that of all the women who had cried in his arms, only two had shed honest tears. The rest had wanted something from him. Money. Jewelry. Once, a horse and buggy. And he, God help him, had usually given it to them.
He gave this one his handkerchief.
And then, what could he do but give her the comfort of his arms? “There now, girl, it’s not so bad.” Easing his large frame onto the bed beside her, he drew her against his chest and tucked her head under his chin. “Your young man will understand when I explain that I was only protecting his interests. He’ll be thanking me for it, and praising you for having the good sense not to sleep unguarded.”
“You d-don’t understand,” Sara whimpered.
What he didn’t understand—what Sara didn’t understand herself was that she didn’t give a goose feather what Archibald thought. She was only just now coming to realize that she wanted more from marriage than a comfortable life with a nice garden and an elderly companion and a place for her two old friends.
The truth was, she wanted someone big and strong, someone who smelled of soap and cigars and good woolens rather than an old man who smelled of macassar oil, dipping tobacco and rum.
She heaved a deep, shuddering sigh, and the hand that had been patting her awkwardly on the arm closed over her shoulder, warm and comforting.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice thin but quite steady. “I’m much better now.”
All the same, she didn’t move away, nor did he seem in any great hurry to let go of her. Gradually, she became aware of the reassuring beat of his heart. Ba-boom. Baboom. Ba-boom, ba-boom, boom, boomboom!
“Do you know your heart is beating fit to raise Jerusalem? Are you all right, sir?”
He allowed as how he was just fine, but to Sara, he didn’t sound all that fine. The fact was, he sounded hoarse. As if he were coming down with a bad cold, and besides that, he was shifting on the bed like a feather stem was poking him in the backside.
“Well,” she exclaimed decisively, “I’m just fine, myself—although I still feel a mite all-overish.”
The hand on her shoulder curved upward. She felt the brush of fingers against her neck, and shivered.
“Are you cold? I could stoke up the fire . . .”
“No, I’m just fine,” she said breathlessly. “What is it they say? Someone stepped on my shadow?”
Jericho retrieved his handkerchief, which was wet from her tears, and mopped his forehead. He had no business thinking what he was thinking. If he didn’t get out of here right quick, he might end up doing more than just thinking it.
“Captain Wilde, do you think—”
“Jericho,” he said. He was in bed with the woman, for God’s sake! “Or Rico. Some call me Rico.”
She twisted her face up to beam at him, lips moist and parted, her lashes still tangled with tears, and that was when he flat-out lost it. Lost his mind.
He didn’t kiss her hard enough to scare her. At least he retained just enough common sense to go easy. All the same, he was shaking by the time he drew away. She tasted like tears and wild mint and honey. Her lips had trembled, but she hadn’t drawn away. Eyes wide, she touched her lips with a finger and stared up at him, her eyes glistening like wet amber. Jericho broke off an oath by turning it into a cough.
“There now,” she said in a thready little voice, “I thought you sounded hoarse. You’re coming down with something.”
“Sara, if you don’t know what it is that ails me, I’m not the man to show you. Your Mr. Ricketts will take care of that.” And he thought, damn the lucky fool.
Again she twisted around to stare up at him. Stubbornly, Jericho looked away, but he didn’t remove his arm. Nor did he leave her bed.
“How would Archibald know what ails you? Oh—you mean, because he sells patent medicines?”
Under his breath Jericho muttered something about hatching out only yesterday, but Sara was too busy trying to regain her sensibility to pay much attention. “Well, he did prescribe a bismuth solution for my stepmother’s bilious attacks that seemed to help. I could ask him—”
“Damn it, Sara—!”
The fingers on her shoulder bit into her flesh. Suddenly, he was looming over her, his eyes dark as coals and burning as fiercely. Sara was aware of a weakness in her limbs and a fluttery feeling in the pit of her belly that was unlike anything she had ever felt before.
“Perhaps—” she began when he cut her off.
“Perhaps nothing! Meaning you no disrespect, Sara, but if I don’t kiss you once more before I leave, it will weigh on my mind for as long as I live. Which might not—”
But he didn’t finish the statement. Instead, he lowered her to the bed and leaned over her, his chest crushing her bosom, one of his limbs moving heavily over her own. Sara’s eyes grew wider. Her breathing ceased altogether as she waited for what was to come. She couldn’t have moved if the bed had suddenly caught fire.
Which it well might do, she thought a little wildly. All at once, she felt terribly warm.
This time, there was nothing gentle about his kiss. His mouth came down hard, and she felt his teeth against her lips, and then his tongue, and then—oh, merciful saints—his tongue was inside her mouth, doing things that didn’t make any sense at all, but it was wonderful. Quite magical, even though it made her want to squirm and press against something, only she didn’t know what and she didn’t know why.
And then he was touching her bosom, and she nearly cried out. How could he have possibly known she wanted him to touch her there when she hadn’t even known it herself? But oh, it felt so good! So sweetly, achingly delicious, she didn’t think she could stand it another moment!
She could feel the web of ropes through the feather ticking pressing against her back. Only then did she realize that his body was lying on top of hers, and that the weight of both their bodies had pressed the mattress flat.
Not only that, but he had bumps and ridges in places that she had never noticed before, even that first day when she had particularly noticed the generous swell of his parts, which had embarrassed her no end, because she never noticed things like that about a man.
Right now, one of those ridges was pressing against her in a way that made her want to press back. She wiggled her hips.
Jericho groaned.
Then his hips moved, and they both groaned.
Sara thought he might be hurting. Then again, perhaps he was feeling the same remarkable sensations she was feeling, feelings that took her breath away and made her want something . . . something that shimmered just out of reach.
“Judas priest.”
The words, uttered harshly, sounded like tearing canvas in the sudden silence. The fire, banked for the night, glowed dimly. On the washstand, the candle guttered and went out. For long moments, the only sound to be heard was the faint creaking of overstressed rope under the mattress and the rasp of heavy breathing.
Abruptly, Jericho levered himself off her body, leaving a chill in his place. He stood beside the bed, not looking at her, shoving his shirttail back into his trousers.
Sara hadn’t even known it was out. She couldn’t see him very clearly, only his silhouette against the feeble glow from the fireplace. Not for the first time that evening, she felt confused, angry and embarrassed. Felt, in fact, as if something infinitely precious had been snatched away at the last moment.
“Well,” she said finally, the way she sometimes did when she needed to organize her thoughts. But before she could go on, he turned on her and told her to say no more.
“It’s my place to apologize, Sara, and I do. Most sincerely. I took—wanted to take—That is, I had no business forcing my attentions on you when you’re already spoken for, and I’m in no position to make you an honorable offer.”
Sara started to tell him that it was all right, that he hadn’t forced anything on her that she hadn’t wanted, even if she wasn’t quite certain what it was, but he hushed her again.
“I’ll be right outside your door, madam. You have only to call out if anything disturbs you,” he said, and before she could gather her wits, he was gone.
Jericho didn’t even try to sleep. He had all but forgotten how. Instead, he sat down, braced his back against the cool paneled wall, crossed his booted ankles, and went to thinking over what he had just done.
Or rather, what he had come close to doing. It didn’t help his conscience to know that he could probably have taken her and she wouldn’t even have tried to stop him.
She was a complete innocent. A seaman didn’t run into too many innocent women, not in the kind of places that usually sprung up along the waterfront of every port city in the world. Men who had been at sea for weeks, sometimes months, were a gold mine for the kind of women who made their living servicing their needs.
Fearing the French pox, Jericho had usually steered clear of the houses closest the docks, but even farther inland, he had never trafficked with an innocent.
In two days now, he was to meet a man and fight him to the death. He might, or might not walk out of the swamp alive. Which made it all the more puzzling—or maybe it didn’t—that he should be so drawn to a woman like Sara.
Not a woman like Sara. To Sara, herself. To her warmth, her wit, her sweetness, and her pride. To the strength he sensed beneath that deceptively delicate framework.
Ricketts had better claim his woman fast, or he might just find himself in for a disappointment. Sight unseen, Jericho despised the man for leaving her here unprotected.
More like envied him, he admitted reluctantly. The truth was, he would like nothing better than to take care of her for the rest of his life, but she deserved a man with a lifespan longer than a couple of days.
And that was the one thing he couldn’t promise her.
What he could offer her, however, was the protection of his name. Just in case Ricketts kicked up a fuss over the gossip that was bound to greet him on his arrival. He could promise her a home. Wilde Oakes needed a mistress if it couldn’t have a master. Sara and Louisa would have liked one another, Jericho was sure of it.
He almost went back into her room and made his offer right then, to reassure her that she had nothing to worry about in case Ricketts sheared off.
But tomorrow would be soon enough. Tomorrow he would broach the subject, and if Ricketts backed off—if Sara was agreeable—he would fetch a joiner and see the deed done then and there. Before he went to face Smithers.
That decided, Jericho felt as if a half-ton anchor had dropped from his shoulders. For the first time in weeks, he looked forward to the dawn of a new day.
Chapter Seven
The morning was half gone before Sara ventured from her room. She had waited until hunger drove her out, and then gone to the dining room, miserably conscious of the stares and whispers that followed her progress.
“Is there—is it too late—I mean, could I possibly get something to eat?” she inquired.
“Late for breakfast, early for dinner. Reck’n I can rustle up something,” said the surly woman who waited on tables.
Sara hoped it would be whatever was left over from breakfast rather than what was already cooked for dinner. Breakfasts and suppers cost only thirty-seven and a half cents, while dinners cost fifty cents. If she had known she would be staying so long, she would have asked for weekly rates.
