Dalliances & Devotion Page 8

  David swallowed—hard and loud enough that it vibrated his brain. He could still taste her on his tongue. “I’m not saying that—I just, well, I’ve been in difficult situations. In battle. I know how people—”

  “Of course.” The grind of her teeth echoed above the birdcalls. Not an auspicious sign. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips swollen from his handiwork. Probably scratched too, from his stubble. He stroked the bristles.

  She wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something distasteful—him, no doubt. “Why should someone as fragile and feeble-minded as me be able to retain her faculties in difficult situations? Why would the fact that I’m a woman now, not a sixteen-year-old girl anymore, matter? You’re not that much older than I am. Not even a full two years.”

  He should confess. Everything. All his feelings—the anger, the hurt, and the damned attraction or whatever it was that still, somehow survived. He should explain that, despite everything, he wanted her—completely, even if it was dangerous, and idiotic, and not going to happen given their situation.

  But he couldn’t. And not just due to her father and brother. He could take them both, giants or not.

  No, it was about him. And her.

  The bitterness from the rejection years ago and the hurt choked down any words he could offer, at least in that moment.

  David could only shake his head in the negative as wetness dripped on her eyelashes. She sniffed a little and his heart cracked. “So you were just humoring me, both when we met and just now.” She closed her eyes for a long moment.

  Everything inside him stilled at the comment and his face grew hot. How dare she doubt his attraction? More than attraction—unadulterated lust. And other feelings, ones almost like love. Fine, all right, love. Or at least what he’d believed was love in his naiveté.

  He wasn’t a sterling example of goodness, but he wasn’t malevolent either. And he’d worked so hard to show her how he felt, even if he couldn’t explain it.

  The bitterness was back, tenfold. Someone needed to rid him of her and all the heartache she caused.

  Except not now, not until she was at least safe, because he owed her brothers that. More than that maybe. And, when she was nice to him, she was very difficult to abandon. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Amalia...”

  “No, it’s fine.” She waved her hand at him a little before rising, her back to him once more. “The sky is darkening. We should get back to the station. We wouldn’t want to be late, would we?”

  No, they’d not. And, once they returned and she retreated to her private rooms, he could do what he needed to do most of all. Get good and drunk—Will and Meg could handle the guard for the night by themselves.

  Chapter Eight

  Clop, clop, clop, clop, plunk. The silence in the cab accentuated every single creak, groan, and knock of the wheels. Amalia bit down a sigh. She’d not give David the satisfaction of the noise, of the confirmation of how humiliated she was. Again. The one constant in her life. He’d probably take it as proof that the kiss was a mistake. And chide her.

  Amalia resisted sticking out her tongue and instead scooted as far away from his body as she could on the narrow, open seat, which afforded no privacy. Perhaps she should just stare at the horse’s ass. The literal one, not the figurative one sitting on her side, taking in the sights of Pittsburgh.

  At least he was reading a newspaper, not managing her. No, he was ignoring her.

  Which was worse.

  After the kiss. After the beautiful, wonderful, awe-inspiring kiss that was better than the past, better than anything she had experienced. Better than Passover or Rosh Hashanah, and maybe if he’d kissed her like that on New Year’s...

  No, she’d have made those same choices, right or wrong. Because he didn’t believe in marriage, and honestly, at this point she didn’t either. And she’d not have survived a mere shadow relationship with him. Especially back then. Especially after Simon died.

  And now, the choices were gone. Or had already been made. There was no room for him in her life, not if she wanted respect, not if she wanted to preserve all she’d fought so hard to build. Not if she wanted what little sense she had intact.

  Besides, a kiss was a kiss and not a declaration of love. Which was why it was hardly fair of him to make such a tempest of it.

  Amalia picked at the pink pearl buttons on her cuffs in the cab. David’s chin rested on his palm as he thumbed the thick pages.

  What could he possibly find so fascinating? All she could read was the score from the game between the Athletics and Forest Citys, less than titillating.

  She glanced to her other side, staring at the shops dotting the streets as they drew closer to the river. Women and men with baskets and bundles darted back and forth as children played with hoops and balls near the edge of the cobblestones. All minding their own business, all absorbed in their own hectic lives. All probably very happy.

  She squeezed the handle of her valise. It didn’t match anything but damned if she was going to leave it, and its contents, unattended. Or worse, with Will and Meg.

  And David still hadn’t spoken to her. She folded her arms and glanced at him again, out of the corner of her eye. He gazed at whatever he was reading, not her nor even the glistening river junction, as they crossed the bridge.

  Amalia ran her tongue over the top of her teeth. What could she possibly do now? Or say? What words could she use to make everything right—well, not right, but acceptable, again?

  “Do you enjoy being a Pinkerton?” Not her most dazzling attempt at polite conversation, but it’d have to do.

  “It suits my skills.” David adjusted his spectacles, eyes still down.

  “Which ones?” She made her voice bright because what else could she do? Someone had to try for normalcy. Though why did it have to be her?

  “Which ones do you think?”

  Honestly? Who answers a question with a question? Though...she edged closer, was there a note of teasing amusement under the boredom in his voice?

  Only one way to find out. She flicked a loose strand of hair off her face and drew nearer. Again. “Certainly not the ones you used to fire a weapon, unless those have vastly improved.”

  He barked a little and stroked his spectacles. “No. That’s still your brother’s primary contribution.”

  “Then the ones you use pushing a cart?” She pulled in her lips so not to laugh, as the memories of the tales he’d spun for her about how many times he capsized in the rain sprang in her head. He’d be so near at the table, gesturing wildly, his eyes twinkling.

  The corner of his lip tipped. “Those have improved. Though it’s been a long time since I’ve done that. I’ve schleped papers, much more recently, actually. Loaded and unloaded, for a case.” He flexed his arm, straining the outer wool of his sleeve.

  Amalia turned to the side to hide the flush creeping into her cheeks. He was holding back on her with the corset tightening. Lord, what would it be like to be held, truly held, in those arms? She tossed her longest locks over her shoulder and swiveled back to him.

  “And I suppose there are the other skills you told me about. Couldn’t you take a single word in a line of text, analyze its placement, its use elsewhere, its alternative meanings and spin an entire line of commentary?”

  And finally, he glanced in her direction, a near sheepish half smile on his lips. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hope I didn’t describe what I did with the rabbis like that. That sounds pompous, especially as my time studying was limited.”

  She rolled her eyes and gave him a little shove with her elbow. “You are pompous. Very pompous. A passionate, rather adorable pompous, especially when you’re talking about ‘equality’ and the ‘proletariat,’ but pompous nonetheless. Though that’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” Full eye contact now. Deep and searching. “Other than the fact you
find pompousness adorable, an oddity I’ll have to note for the file.”

  How did that teasing, that banter, always near take her breath away? She was ridiculous. Amalia pinched her thigh beneath her skirts so not to say anything foolish. She coughed. “Well, in the field, didn’t you scout?”

  “Yes.” There was a weary caution in his voice.

  But somehow, she couldn’t stop speaking to analyze it. “And note changes in enemy lines and directions of tracks in the mud and chinks in formation and spin all that into a prediction—”

  “I had a little more information than that.” A shadow crossed David’s face.

  No. Someone should muzzle her. Of all the things she could’ve reminded him of, what he and her brother—both her brothers, the one she’d see in a day or two and the one she’d never see again—had done and seen, had to be the worst. Her mind hiccupped and spurted as she searched for some way to fix it, to brush it under the carpet again.

  Everything stilled for a long moment, until David released a long, slow breath. He turned back to her with a hint of a grin. “The four of us intercepted communications and eavesdropped. And guarded munitions.”

  “Kind of like you’re doing now.” She gave him a bit of faux indignation to chew on. Better to remind him of her failures than of...

  “I think you’d be pretty vexed if I compared you to a weapon. As for the rest, most certainly not for this job. Eavesdropping? How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” The smile grew as overexaggerated, mock outrage rang in his voice.

  “It’d be very boring.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  “I don’t know about that.” It was his turn to lean closer, his voice a soft, deep, melodic whisper. “But I’d probably need a translator.”

  She frowned. What did he mean?

  He licked the tip of his finger, tipped the newspaper in her direction so she could read the name. The Philadelphia Inquirer. Who knew you could obtain it in the Pittsburgh train station? “What, for example, is the difference between ‘knickers’ and ‘drawers’?”

  Lord, he was reading her column. That’s what he’d been doing on the ride? Of all the things... She twisted her fingers even as her heart wobbled against her chest, louder than the beats of the horses. He was reading it. He cared enough to read it. Oh god, what if he found it insipid or lacking, or vapid, vacuous, and verbose?

  “Are you blushing, Amalia?” And the smirking, teasing David—one of her favorite Davids—leaned closer. “What’s going on in that head of yours? Nothing immodest or improper or unbefitting a gloved and bustled lady, I hope.”

  “No, nothing at all,” she squeaked, even as her body tingled. This David, this flirting David was going to be the death of her. She crossed her ankles beneath her skirt and squeezed her legs together as tight as she could so she didn’t jump on his body because the fact he cared enough to read... As if somehow, after all he’d seen and been through, her life, her words were still important...

  David snapped a finger in front of her face. “You never answered my question.”

  “What was it again?” A squawk more than a squeak.

  “The difference between knickers and drawers. Honestly, it seems like it should be a very simple question for someone with your expertise.” He wagged a finger at her.

  “None?” Amalia squeaked the word. Not the most appealing sound. She cleared her throat. “They essentially mean the same thing. They are little feminine breeches to wear under our skirts. I use both terms when I write so not to use the same word too many times. It keeps the reader interested.”

  “Huh.” David leaned back and tapped his chin, as if contemplating. “What do you wear under them?”

  “Pardon me?” Amalia’s mind went blank for an entire minute. He couldn’t really have asked... Her breath hitched.

  “What do you wear under the drawers or knickers or womanly breeches?” David crossed his arms.

  “Nothing.” She blinked and shifted a little, rubbing her thighs against each other, the lace and silk humming with friction. “We wear nothing under them. They’re the first undergarment.”

  “I’d have started with that instead of worrying about word choice. That information certainly caught my attention.” He stroked the back of his neck, right under his collar, a glint in his eye.

  “Are you mocking my writing?” She gasped a little, not at all imagining what his hand stroking would feel like on her bare thigh.

  “I’d never mock you or your writing. Never. I’m not that sort of man.” His dark eyes turned hard. The humor vanished and the cold, judging aloofness returned to his features.

  “Did I say something wrong?” She blinked. Why was he like this? Friendly one moment and angry the next? This couldn’t be about the past, could it? No, that wasn’t possible. She hadn’t been that important. “If I did, I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “All your mistakes are always innocent accidents.” The last part was under his breath but still audible.

  “So this is how you plan to protect me? Insult me, confuse me, get me so dizzy I swoon so you can deposit me in Centerville like cargo? Fine. If that’s how you see me and your job, I’ll just be silent for the rest of the ride.” Her voice and body shook as she spoke.

  “Really? Can you manage that? I mean you are Thad’s sister.” David’s voice was so calm. Ugh. If anyone deserved to be thrown from a cab...

  “I can and I certainly will. I’ll not give you anything else to gossip with your partners about when we get back. The three of you can say what you want but at least I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not.” And her vision wavered. Curses. A million curses. He’d not see her cry. She stared back at the horse’s backside. Imagine what that smells like. Remember the stables at home.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” He had her elbow now.

  Which she used to jab him in the rib. He grunted but didn’t let go. The smug bastard was strong.

  Fine. It hadn’t been the most accurate insult, but that wasn’t her aim. Not this time. Though she still needed to make sense. She grasped at threads for a cover. “Well, haven’t you been playacting for years?”

  “What?” At least he let go. And placed a hand over his mouth.

  She leaned forward. “You said so, at Passover.” It all rushed back.

  I suppose I’m all American for the moment, fighting in your war, serving our little group. I’ve shaved my beard, cut my peyos, eat a variety of things that most certainly have at least touched swine. My own family wouldn’t recognize me. Might make a good surprise though.

  A flicker of recognition, of memory danced in his irises. “I changed my appearance to blend, of course, but that’s just acclimating to a new country. Actually, some of that occurred before I even came here. Anyway, that’s not ‘pretending’ to be anything. I am what I am. I can’t be anything else. Unfortunately.” A ghost of a smile flashed on his face, as if he’d discovered a secret. “And you have a good memory.” Did he just wink at her?

  Desire flared through her chest once more. How could one person drive her senses so wild? Control, she needed to regain some sort of control so she could breathe and think and sort everything out.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She gave her best sniffing impression of her mother and stuck her nose in the air.

  “Yes, you do. You listened to me.” His hands shook a little and wonderment rang in his voice. “You cared enough to listen to me.”

  “How could you ever think I didn’t listen to you? After all, you listened to me. You were the only one besides Simon who ever really did.” The memories danced through her senses. And all reason fled, along with all her qualms as the attraction edged out the annoyance and hurt once more.

  Ignoring the driver—mere feet behind them on his perch, but what he couldn’t see couldn’t hurt him—she
grabbed the lapels of David’s jacket and stared up into his eyes, willing him to want her half as much as she wanted him. “Kiss me, David. Please. Like nothing happened. Like it’s then, not now.”

  “Yes,” he whispered before taking her mouth in his again. “This is wrong. And inappropriate and not what I’m supposed to be doing here, but right now I don’t care.”

  “Not wrong. Never wrong. Right.” She ran her fingers through his. He groaned and she tugged him closer to her. His hand slid under her bottom again, and her body throbbed. She kissed along his jaw. His growl vibrated against her chest and her nipples ached beneath her corset.

  “Amalia.” The way he sighed her name made her nearly go mad with desire. She whimpered and pressed closer.

  He bent down and trailed his lips down her neck and brushed her locket aside, traversing lower so his tongue flitted around the edge of her neckline. Fire. She was on fire, all the way down to her toes.

  Whimpers became moans. Hers? His? Who could be sure?

  “I want you.” She reveled in the coarse curls against her fingers. “I want all of you. I’ve al—”

  The cab lurched to a stop. Amalia peeled herself off David and glanced from side to side and over the back of the damned horse.

  Well, fiddlesticks. They’d made it over the bridge. People bustled about outside the train station, several giving the pair lingering glances.

  She adjusted her hat. And collar. And jewelry. “I suppose we’re here.”

  “I suppose we are.” His cheeks were scarlet, even beneath his tanned skin.

  “Do you think Meg and Will are in the car yet or can we have a few minutes alone to ourselves?” She edged closer to him. Please say the latter. Please let them continue and talk more and figure out what exactly was going on, or more, sort through whatever happened...

  David cleared his throat. “Um, Amalia, I think that might have been a mistake. Until you’re home safe and the agents in Indianapolis apprehend whomever is after you, we may want to pause any discussions or actions—”