Dalliances & Devotion Page 3

  Meg stalked to the mirrored shelf that opened to reveal the best part of the private car—the liquor supply—and poured herself a tall glass of amber liquid. She held out one to him, but he shook his head. One of them needed to stay sober.

  “I can do it.” Meg hiccupped. “Besides, I’m not sure your innocent soul could handle even viewing the mysteries packed in her trunks, rabbi. You should’ve seen her undergarments. Black. They come in red too.”

  “I—I hate that nickname.” He stuttered the automatic response, even as his mind reeled. Black? What did that look like against her golden skin? Despite her now—thanks to the Inquirer—famous penchant for pearl powder, Amalia always glowed as if she spent her days frolicking in a meadow.

  “Why? It suits you. You wear the string things and it looks like you’re trying for a beard.” Meg frowned and gestured, splashing liquid on her sleeve.

  “Nevertheless, I lack the education for it. As you well know.” David’s hand went to his chin. Yup, bristles. He should do something about them, but he couldn’t muster the strength. Maybe after they changed lines.

  Meg ignored his comment. “You repeated all those Bible stories and sayings too.” She smirked at him. “Though I will say, even an actual priest would’ve had trouble making eye contact with the one in there. I mean, she rouges her cleavage. Before bed. And the scarlet lips... I’m surprised the letter didn’t accuse her of charging by the hour.”

  “Stop.” He near roared the word as he leapt to his feet before he could think better of it. “That’s Thad’s younger sister you’re talking about and it isn’t proper to suggest those sorts of things about her. You don’t even know her.” And despite her...thoughtlessness—all right, fine—her downright meanness in the past, Amalia Truitt was still a person. And, more importantly, a client.

  “You’re just jealous I got to see her petticoats. And what lies beneath, without fearing her family’s wrath.” Meg crossed her ankles and her plain linen skirt hitched to show the trousers she wore over her undergarments. As she had ever since the one mission during the war where she’d been captured—thank god Will rescued her before anything really bad happened. Easier to move, she always said after that.

  David inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. They were friends, and she was just teasing him. Drunk. He forced a half smile. And a calm tone. “And you’re just bitter that Will and I get these lovely cushioned couches out here while you’re stuck in a tiny bed in the servant’s quarter.”

  “I get privacy so I can’t complain.” Meg glanced at the door.

  “He’s not back yet.” David might have used a little more singsong than usual, but sue him, she deserved it.

  “So.” She glared at him in a watery-eyed way.

  He gave her his most exaggerated, feigned innocent expression and tucked his thumbs into his pockets. “What?”

  Ah, it was fun to turn the tables.

  “How do you know her highness so well? I mean Will said you only met her a few times—on leave for some of those Jewish holidays and the like.” Meg stretched out both her hands and legs in front of her. She had to have been a feline in another life—if one believed in such things.

  “I studied the dossier. It’s what I do. And I do it well, very well.” He scowled into the air.

  Meg snorted. “You’re the worst liar. Always were. It’s more than that.”

  “Fine. We had a few conversations.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And exchanged some letters during the war.”

  “Letters?” Meg’s tongue darted out of her mouth and her brow wrinkled. She narrowed her eyes. “What sort of letters?”

  Drat.

  “Oh, David.” Meg gave him a pitying look. “I was teasing you before. Ugh. You really do want under her petticoats.” He opened his mouth, but she wasn’t finished. “Let me guess—these letters—if anyone read them, or more if Thad read them, he’d fillet you?”

  He held his head in his hands.

  “You’re a dullard.” Meg tutted as she echoed David’s own thoughts. “I mean, not just writing her, but letting it get...” She lowered her voice. “Inappropriate. Especially after she lost Simon. Brat or not, the girl had to have been so vulnerable after that.”

  Simon. The man who never once said an unkind word, his first friend in America. His name was like a slap. David placed a hand on his own cheek and shuddered.

  Meg had straightened, her elbows on her knees, her eyes now alert and solemn. No doubt recalling the day they all met, the day of his first big battle, the day Simon died. At his feet. Shot with a bullet that could’ve hit him. Could’ve hit any of them.

  “I—They were meant to be friendly.” Initially. He paced to the window and pulled back the curtain, staring into blackness as if he could view the lamp-less Ohio countryside rolling by.

  He pressed his palms against the cool glass. “But things got out of hand.” He bit his lip at the image of Amalia, her nightgown hitched over her thighs, straddling his naked chest in a guestroom of her parents’ house well after midnight. A mistake. He should’ve known better.

  “How ‘out of hand’?” Meg’s stern question broke him out of his reverie.

  “Let’s just say it’s a very good thing Thad and his father know none of this or I’d be missing some key parts.” He glanced over his shoulder at her for a moment, before facing the darkness again.

  “Christ, rabbi.” Meg spit loud enough he turned again. “Though, I’ll admit, a perverse part of me is impressed. Who’d have thought you had it in you? At what, eighteen? Your English must have been more fluent than even I believed to pull off that kind of seduction. As long as you destroyed all the evidence...” She frowned. “You did destroy all of the evidence, right?”

  “I might have kept a photograph.” He didn’t turn around, and instead, closed his eyes.

  Meg made a whimpering, pitying, frustrated noise.

  “Or two.” He laid his forehead against the window, as if the vibrations could stop the memories. Or every single tintype she sent. And a few letters. Fine. All the letters. Because despite the impracticality of it, and worse what she said to him at the end, there had been moments when he almost believed she cared and those moments were precious. Got him through more dark times than he’d want to admit.

  Before David could grumble a quasi-joke to deflect any more questions, the door groaned open and Will ducked through. The tall, slender man lumbered over to the nearest seat and sank down, his mantis-like legs kicked out, his eyes already closed.

  “Thank goodness. Took you long enough.” Meg slapped their half-asleep partner on the back of the neck. “All right, boys, now that I have everyone’s attention—” A loud snore rumbled from Will’s direction. Meg’s face fell and David flinched.

  “Bed, I’m going to bed. I’ll see you all in the morning.” Meg stomped from the room, slamming the door to the servant’s compartment behind her.

  Will swiveled his neck around to meet David’s eye. “What was that about?”

  He pressed his hands over his mouth to force it to work properly. “Are you really asking that?”

  “No. I’m just playing with her a little, before...you know.” Will winked at him.

  Shmuck. David sighed. “Please don’t toy too long. Meg’s in a mood. She hasn’t warmed to the youngest Truitt, that’s for sure.”

  “It took a while, but Thad grew on me. Especially after he apologized.” Will shrugged and settled back in his chair. He kicked up his feet, muddying the crimson footrest.

  David winced at the memory of Thad not realizing Will had a degree from Oberlin, or that he was equally well-versed in literature. It was the moment when he’d fully understood how much the color of a man’s skin mattered in America.

  How goyim weren’t just goyim. How, in America, even as a Jew, even with his accent, he had benefits Will never would have. Well, not unless thin
gs could be made right.

  “Making sure you didn’t get your leg blown off at Weldon Railroad helped a bit too.” David reached over his head and turned down the first gaslight. Only seventeen more to go.

  “That it did.” Will tapped a finger to his lips. “He’s always been an egotistical, oblivious, rich white boy, but he was willing to do better. And shut his mouth. Occasionally. Which is why I’m here.”

  “That and Meg.” David snickered a little. “When do you plan on sneaking into her room?”

  “As soon as you dismiss me. You’re playing ‘boss’ this time, after all.” Will grinned. “That’s another reason I’m here. I wouldn’t miss watching you try to run an operation for the world.”

  “You’re a shmuck.” David crossed his arms.

  “Probably.” Will flashed him a dimple. “But I’m a shmuck who’s getting married. Somehow.”

  “As soon as you ask her, confess that you resigned, that this mission is your last hurrah, and convince her to go to Boston with you.” The location of the law school he wanted to attend. The perfect city as it had plenty of hospitals Meg could work at if she didn’t want to transfer offices. And would accept them as a couple. But Will, despite all evidence that Meg would say “yes” in a heartbeat, still hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask.

  “I will. Soon.” Will grimaced. “But we weren’t talking about me, were we? We were talking about you and the Truitts. Little Amalia in particular.” Will craned his neck towards David. “There’s, or there was, something between you two.”

  Not another smug, knowing partner—worse, one who had eyes sharp enough to spot a gray hat miles away, beneath underbrush. David blew out the candle on the table—or desk, because that’s what he was making it and he was in charge. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He laid himself down on a couch and pulled his coat over his body. “Come on, we should get some shut-eye.”

  A sharp scream split through the air. For a moment, every muscle in David’s body locked as the air thickened around him and the memories of other screams invaded his sense. No. This was the present and he need to perform, act, help. He forced his limbs to move and rose. “Go cover the door.” He glanced over his shoulder at Meg, who’d returned to the main portion of the car, her knife out and ready. “Behind me, in case I need you. Will, see that no one gets in or out of this car without my say-so and until we figure out what’s going on.”

  He positioned himself, hip and ear against the door, his heart pounding in his throat. They’d checked the room. Twice. If anything happened to her... David tapped the partition with the side of his knuckles, loud and firm but calm. “Amalia? Are you all right?”

  Only more unintelligible shrieks and sobs ripped through the barrier, right into the part of his brain ready to panic. “Okay, I’m coming in.” He grabbed the knob—thank goodness she hadn’t locked it—and shoved with his shoulder. David’s eyes near popped out their socket. He adjusted his spectacles.

  Amalia stood in the middle of the room, next to the bed, her nightgown torn so it only reached mid-thigh, her legs and hands covered with blood. Oozing, dark red blood.

  “Amalia? What’s wrong?” he managed as he continued to survey the scene, his mind grinding and churning and sputtering to make sense of—well—everything.

  “That—that was next to my bed and it’s all over my legs and nightgown.” She pointed at the ground, her entire body shaking.

  David glanced down and gagged so hard, bile burnt his throat. Stomach roiling, he bent to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Nope. Not at all.

  There, on Amalia’s torn cream-colored satin, lay a headless rodent, probably a rat, spewing its innards. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and bent down to stave off the dizziness as he sorted through priorities in his mind. First, gain control of the situation. Second, protect Amalia, and third—figure out if that thing came in through human or feline means.

  “The rest of it’s over there.” Amalia indicated with her chin to a corner where the grotesque object sat atop one of her slippers. Another scream. And a moan.

  With all his might, David forced himself away from the vile mess and threw his head out the door frame. “Meg, get in here. I need some help.” He glanced back at Amalia, who waved her arms, whimpering and mumbling the words “head” and “dead” over and over. “Bring a sack and a basin of water too. And some of Miss Truitt’s soap.”

  Wrong thing to say. The whimpers transformed back into screams, accompanied by near violent hand-wringing. “It’s probably filled with disease.” Amalia tore at her own skin—not that he could blame her because...so, so, so foul. “Oh god, I’m going to die. Get it off. Get it all off.”

  In a flash, Meg was behind him, her hair down and wild. “What in the—Christ.” She raced over to Amalia and forced the woman’s hands into the basin. “I’ll sponge her down.”

  Instead, Amalia snatched the cloth from Meg and scrubbed her knees and thighs.

  He glanced back at Meg. Someone finally noticed the source of the blood. His normally stoic partner, who’d amputated limbs, curled herself up in a corner and vomited on the floor.

  No help at all. At least he hadn’t brought Will. He’d have probably fainted. David stalked over to the bureau. That’s where ladies kept their night things, right? He opened the top drawer to a sea of white satin and silk. He pulled the top article out. Hopefully, it would work. It was certainly lacy enough. He thrust it towards Meg, who didn’t move, her face paler than the fabric.

  Shaking a little himself, he sidestepped the rat. Amalia snatched the gown from him. Tears ran down her cheeks and her legs were scraped raw, but her breathing calmed. She was in better shape than his partner at least. And probably him. He turned to retreat.

  “Don’t leave me.” She wound the new garment in her hands, away from her body so he had a full view of her ruined gown. Her wet, ruined gown. Her wet, ruined, transparent gown.

  He shifted so he could stare at the window. “I can’t stay while you’re changing. Your brother will shoot me, in an uncomfortable place. I shouldn’t even be in here with your nightgown ripped.”

  “Please don’t go.” She clutched his arm. His said a silent prayer that the blood was off her hands. Worse, her near nude body brushed against his and a war broke out beneath his skin, between revulsion, duty, and attraction—that he could neither want nor afford.

  But she was terrified and what kind of monster would abandon her in a room with a dead...that? And protecting her was his job, his duty, and his path to fixing the world—or at least America.

  He rubbed his neck. “Fine, but I’m going to avert my eyes. And Meg will vouch for me, if Thad asks.” He glanced in Meg’s direction—still gurgling and gasping. Honestly. The woman had cleaned up more human entrails than, well, anyone. “You hear that, Meg?”

  She coughed into her hand but rocked forward. “I heard it. Closing your eyes. I’ll report the same to Thad and I won’t bother to mention how far—” His partner gagged again. David gave her a withering glare as Amalia splashed more water on herself. She was going to catch cold at this rate.

  Her teeth chattered. “Its guts are all over my legs and those things make people—have you heard of the black death? It was in the Decameron. Thousands of people got horrible sores on their joints and vomited blood. It spread from animals and all you had to do was touch—”

  “She really is Thad’s sister. Someone needs to take books away from those children.” Meg gave a harsh laugh but wavered on her feet.

  Useless. David elbowed her and indicated to the door. He didn’t need to say the words. Meg bounded out, probably into the chair next to Will.

  David sighed again. No time to envy his partners because Amalia needed help. Professional help, like Thad would want. He lit a candle and accidentally glanced in her direction. Legs. Amalia’s legs, her long, now clean legs. With curved calves and ta
pered thighs. His body tightened with lust.

  Eyes half closed, he managed to suppress his groan of desire—mostly. Meshuggenah—absolutely mad. Especially as she was spoiled and shallow and would hurt him again and again if he gave her the chance.

  Client. That’s what she was and nothing more.

  “Th-th-thank you.” Amalia shivered but was already hitching her garment, as if he wasn’t there. He spun back around as fast as he could, not at all attempting to visualize whatever was happening behind his back.

  The remainder of her former gown hit the floor with a whoosh. He bent to grab it. “I’ll get rid of it and change the sheets too—”

  Amalia grabbed his arm. “I’m not sleeping in here.”

  David pinched the back of his neck. Terrible idea. He needed the separation.

  Amalia’s chin quivered. She hugged herself, rubbing and squeezing her arms and everything inside him twisted.

  “We’ll put you on the longest couch, with a blanket. I’ll take the floor.” He scooped her up in his arms because one couldn’t expect her to walk in her condition. Completely appropriate.

  “I hate cats,” she sniffed. “Terrible, sneaky creatures.”

  Better than men.

  He didn’t voice his thoughts, and instead clutched her against him as she snuggled into his chest, magnolia blossoms wafting through the air. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise. Nothing will happen to you while I’m around.”

  And tomorrow, they’d find the culprit, feline, human, or anything in between.

  Chapter Four

  Why was the sun so hot? And blinding? And more, why was her neck so—ow. Amalia pinched and kneaded the top of her spine through her ruffled collar. She slipped her fingers farther, working her way down along her shoulders, and moaned. So, so, so, so stiff. The velvet-tufted couch cushioned her like a cloud while sitting, but when she lay down, feet off the edge and the decorative buttons digging into her back—not cloud-like at all. More like a rock. With spikes.

  Besides, she was a grown woman. Grown women slept in beds. With fresh linens. And tall posts and husbands down the hall who occasionally came to visit and, well, love them. The way her parents loved each other and her siblings’ spouses loved them. But that never happened. And never would.