Chauncey didn’t raise her eyes from her still-full plate. She had formed three little mounds with the peas. “They’re very . . . green,” she said.
He cocked a mocking brow at her. “Green as in jealous green?”
She carefully laid her fork on the plate, wishing she could fling the peas in his miserable face. Jealousy be damned! She was frustrated, furious with him because she didn’t know what to do, and he saw it as jealousy. She had no experience in the intricacies of men’s minds, and had obviously chosen the wrong way to behave toward him. Did he really believe her jealous? His show of conceit put her back on firm ground, and she said amiably, “You are an arrogant swine, you know.”
“That’s better. You become quite tongue-tied when you’re angry.”
“At least it’s a real emotion! I begin to wonder if you ever feel anything, beyond a joke, that is.”
“Ah, Chauncey, ripping up at me? You behold a simple man who thought only to enjoy your company during dinner.”
“You are so damned slippery!”
“But food is one of life’s pleasures, my dear. I was but trying to explain it to you.”
She regarded him closely and said abruptly, “You’ve a scar on your upper lip.”
“The result of a slippery ax my father gave me for Christmas when I was eight years old. I have other scars, in more interesting places.”
“You would doubtless be pleased to recount your bravery in the making of each one.”
“Only if it would secure your admiration and soften you up a bit.”
I can’t and won’t be soft around you! she wanted to yell at him. Instead she stifled an elaborate yawn and asked, “Did you enjoy your ride with Miss Stevenson?”
His mobile left brow shot up again. “Odd, isn’t it, how I guessed you knew about that?”
“Oh, and you feel I am jealous because of it?” Take that, you cad, she thought, watching his eyes gleam with her unexpected retort.
“Penelope is a rather . . . careful rider. Not hell-bent like you. Of course, she has kept her body intact as a result of her prudence.”
He was toying with her, like a big lazy cat with a rib-bandaged mouse. The vivid picture that brought to her mind doused her ire at him and made her giggle.
“That’s better. Will you share the jest with me?”
Why not? she thought. Nothing else seemed to work. “I imagined you a big furry cat pawing about a poor, helpless little mouse, one with bandaged ribs.”
He grinned at her. “I wonder if there were no bandages which of us would be viewed as the cat?”
The mark hit home and she bit down on her lower lip. “I don’t toy with you,” she said stiffly.
“Perhaps not, but you have certainly chased me about in a grand manner. I am thinking that I should probably collapse in a heap and see what you would do with my exhausted body.”
“That would certainly be a change,” she said.
“Is it difficult being bound in your—my—bed, unable to chase your prey to ground?”
“Your potatoes are likely cold. Won’t Lin be disappointed? You’ve hardly done justice to her delicious meal.”
Delaney gazed briefly at the lump of mashed potatoes, then back over at her. “What would you say, my dear, if I were to collapse beside you in bed?”
Should she react coyly? Tease him? “Oh, damn,” she said aloud, “I don’t know!”
He burst into laughter, nearly upsetting the tray in front of him. “You are a delight, you know that?”
She felt his words spiral through her body, giving her a brief feeling of utter triumph, and something else that nibbled undefined at the back of her mind. She shied away. “This delight wants to know what you did with your time today. Saint told me you were a busy man. Before Miss Stevenson came, were you involved in business?”
Thrust and parry, he thought. “Actually I was,” he said, shoving aside the table and leaning back in his chair. “I’m expecting one of my ships to arrive from the Orient. It’s due anytime now.”
Shipping! How rich was he? “How many ships do you own, sir?”
“Three. My father was a shipbuilder back in Boston, as is my brother, Alex, in New York.”
“I see,” she said. “How . . . interesting.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and stretched out his legs. “Is your question simply idle conversation, or do you want to know if I’m as rich as you are?”
“I’m very rich,” she snapped. Could the wretched man read her mind? He disconcerted her, left her flapping in the breeze like a loose sail.
“And like me, you’re a nabob. One of those deplorable specimens with pretensions to good breeding and good taste.”
“I was definitely old wealth until my father died. Then everything was . . . different.”
“Tell me how you came about your wealth.”
No harm in that, she thought. Perhaps such a recital would gain his trust, his sympathy. “My godfather died in India. Some years before, his wife and son were killed in a native uprising. He made my father his heir. When my father died, he stipulated that all his money would come to me on my twenty-first birthday. He saved me, litterally. You see, I had no prospects save those of becoming a shop girl and garnishing bonnets, that or continue being a drudge in my aunt’s house in London and fending off her son, Owen. I . . . I much enjoy my freedom.”
“If that is the case, my dear, it would seem to me that the last thing you would want is a husband mucking about with your fortune.”
He was doing it again, she thought, utterly vexed. She said stiffly, “America is not England, Delaney. Everyone is free here, including women.”
“I suppose that is more true than not. You are a complex woman, Chauncey. Perhaps someday you will tell me why a very rich young Englishwoman decided to travel to this particular end of the earth.”
“Have you not sailed on one of your ships to the Orient?”
“Yes, but that is not the point, is it?”
“No, you are right of course. It isn’t the point.”
He watched her intently a moment beneath the sweep of his lashes. Her thick hair was braided and pinned atop her head, with curling wisps framing her face. Her bed gown was frothy pale yellow lace, billowing up about her white throat. Even her hands were soft, white and graceful, the fingers slender and beautifully tapered. He glanced at his own hands and winced. They still looked like laborer’s hands from the months spent in the mining camps.
He wanted her. It didn’t overly surprise him, for she was a lovely woman. He had known women more beautiful, but none of them had drawn him like she did. It was that elusiveness about her that intrigued him. Thrust and parry, he thought again. She would lead him on shamelessly, then draw back abruptly.
“Have you any pain?” he asked.
“Just a bit,” she said truthfully.
“But you refuse laudanum, right?”
“I do not like to be drugged.”
“Chauncey, did your father die of an overdose of laudanum?”
She paled, her eyes dimming as if he had struck her. Yes, she wanted to howl in anguish at him. Yours was the hand that thrust it into his mouth! She closed her eyes, knowing that her fury and hatred of him were clear to see.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I did not mean to upset you. I will leave you now.”
He rose and stacked the plates on the tray. “Sleep well, my dear. I will see you in the morning.”
He left her in the quiet darkness, alone, to deal with her pain. Oddly enough, her last thought before sleep claimed her was that he was the complex one, an intricate puzzle whose pieces did not fit together to form the image of a man she must hate. She could not see shadows of corruption beneath his teasing smile.
Delaney spoke briefly with Lin and Lucas before retiring to his library to work. But concentration eluded him. He smiled, remembering Lin’s guileless words. “Missy likes you,” she had said slyly. “She’s a real lady, that one.”
He t
ried writing a letter to his brother, Alex, but realized after a good fifteen minutes that he had succeeded in producing but one inane sentence. He cursed softly, knowing well what it was—who it was—that was distracting him. He doused the lamps and walked quietly up the stairs. He paused a moment in front of her bedroom door, knowing he should curse himself for his lustful thoughts, when a piercing scream froze his rampant desire.
“Chauncey!” He flung open her bedroom door and rushed into the dark room, expecting perhaps to see a villainous creature ravishing her. Instead, all he could make out was her writhing body on the bed. Her low, guttural sobs filled the stillness of the room.
“Chauncey,” he said again, more softly this time, realizing that she was caught in a nightmare. He sat on the side of the bed and clasped her shoulders. “Come on,” he whispered softly. “Wake up, Chauncey. Wake up!”
“No!” she moaned, trying to thrust him away. He could feel the power of her fear, and it shook him.
“Wake up, dammit!”
He drew her into his arms, tightening his arms about her back. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s all right now.”
The door to the adjoining room flew open, and Mary, still drawing her bed robe about her, rushed in, her fat braids flapping up and down on her shoulders.
“It’s all right, Mary,” Delaney said quietly. “She had a nightmare.”
Mary drew a deep breath, coming no closer. “It’s been a while,” she said. “I’d hoped it would leave her alone.”
“It’s the same nightmare?” He felt Chauncey stir in his arms, her sobs now dissolved into erratic hiccups. Instead of pulling away, she burrowed closer to him, as if trying to hide herself.
“Yes. Before we left England, she was nearly run down by a madman driving a carriage. A sailor saved her at the last minute.”
“I see,” he said. “Go back to bed, Mary. I’ll stay with her until she calms.”
Mary nodded and walked back into her room, closing the door behind her. It didn’t occur to Delaney at the moment that it was most unexpected for a maid to leave her mistress alone in the arms of a man who was not her husband. “Chauncey,” he whispered against her temple. Unintentionally his lips formed soft kisses. She nestled closer and he felt a shock of desire at the feel of her breasts pressing against his chest. His hands were stroking her hair, kneading the taut muscles of her neck. “Sweetheart,” he said, his lips forming the endearment against her cheek.
Chauncey felt the terror slowly drain away. She realized with something of a start that she felt quite safe tucked against him, his firm hands kneading away her fear. She struggled back, angered not by his holding her, but by her own thoughts. “I am not a weak fool,” she muttered. He loosed, but continued to keep her in the circle of his arms.
“No, of course you are not. Everyone has bad dreams.”
“It wasn’t just a bad dream,” she said sharply. “He tried to kill me. I’m not crazy.”
“The man who drove the carriage?”
She pressed her face against his shoulder, nodding. Her movement made him suck in his breath. His hand longed to caress her breast.
Damned horny goat! He quickly untangled her arms and pressed her back into her pillow. She was in his house, in his bed, and he would not take advantage of her.
She seemed oblivious of his distress and his ragged breathing. “I’m all right now,” she said, barely a tremor in her voice. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. The dream does not come often now.”
“I was passing your room when I heard you scream.” He gently pushed a tendril of hair away from her forehead, his hand shaking slightly. “You scared the hell out of me.”
At that moment, Chauncey shook off her fear. She was utterly aware that he was alone with her, and she was wearing nothing but her nightgown. Should she pull him down to her? Ask him to stay? Stay and do what? She suddenly saw Owen, his intent to compromise her, and she sucked in her breath, her entire body stiffening, hating herself.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Chauncey,” he said quietly, misreading her reaction. “I would never harm you. Would you like a glass of water or milk?”
“No,” she said, her voice sounding suspiciously like a child on the verge of tears.
He rose and methodically straightened the covers. Say something, you fool! “If Saint says it is all right, would you like to take a carriage ride with me tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I would like that.”
She lay in the darkness, staring toward the closed door. She heard him down the corridor, pause, and retrace his steps. Then he was striding down the front stairs and out the front door. Where, she wondered, frowning, was he going?
Delaney spent the next three hours with Marie, giving his body exquisite relief. But not his mind. He was broodingly silent as he rode Brutus through the dark streets of San Francisco.
“Yes indeed,” Saint said, smiling at his patient’s obvious enthusiasm, “but mind you don’t gallop those horses of yours, Del! It’s a beautiful day, not a whiff of fog. Take her to see the ocean, but careful you don’t overtire her.”
How free and unfettered it felt to wear a gown without a corset, Chauncey thought as she tilted her face back to bask in the warm sunlight. This must be what men feel like. She turned her head slightly to look at Delaney seated beside her. Lucas was driving a bay gelding whose name was, ironically enough, Stud.
“Thank you,” she said. “The landau is perfect. I feel utterly spoiled and cosseted.”
“The landau is on loan from the Stevensons,” he said, giving her a wicked grin.
She drew in her breath, then smiled back at him. “I will not allow you to draw me, not today!”
“You are warm enough, Chauncey?”
“If you pile another blanket on me, I shall roast.”
Delaney gave her a long look, thinking he would like to make her roast all right, but with his body, not a damned blanket.
Lucas guided the horse through the maze of wagons, pedestrians, and vendors down Market Street. “All the new building,” Chauncey said, gasping slightly as a Chinese nearly stumbled into the path of the carriage, weighted down with several heavy boards.
“It never ends. Lucas, let’s drive past the Mission Dolores. When you’re well again, Chauncey, we’ll visit the Russ Gardens. You know about them, don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” she said pertly. “Tony, dear Tony, told me all about them.”
“Touché, witch. This, my dear Chauncey, is the plank road that was built in 1851 to connect the center of San Francisco with the Mission Dolores. We now have a racetrack there. All the comforts of civilization.”
“I’ve never been to a racetrack before,” Chauncey said somewhat wistfully.
“What? Not even Ascot?”
She shook her head, her lips pursing primly. “Father didn’t think it proper.”
“Now that you’re an independent woman, will you deem it proper?”
“Perhaps,” she said, giving him a coy smile, “with the proper escort.”
“I’ll ask Tony if he’s free,” Delancy said blandly.
“You—”
“Did you know that San Francisco got its name only six years ago? Washington Barlett was the alcalde, or mayor, then. He ordered the name changed from Yerba Buena to San Francisco in our first newspaper, the California Star.”
“Yerba what?”
“Yerba Buena. It means ‘good herb.’ Supposedly because of an aromatic shrub that grew about the shore. Everyone, you know, wanted to claim California—the Russians, the French, even you British. We Americans, of course, won out in the end. The Spanish ceded California to us in 1848, when we won the war, only five years ago.”
“When was gold discovered?”
“It’s ironic. The treaty was signed early in 1848. Only nine days earlier, Marshall had picked up the first flakes of gold at Sutter’s sawmill. All hell broke loose a few months later.”
“With you as one of the . . . what are you cal
led? The argonauts?”
His expression clouded for just an instant. “That’s right,” he said matter-of-factly. “I traveled overland from Boston. Quite a hazardous journey in those days. In fact, it still is.”
“You came to California because of the gold?”
“As my brother, Alex, is fond of telling anyone who will listen, I was a rebellious sort, not content to follow in my father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. It took the lure of gold and the challenge of making my own way to get me off my butt.”
“It must have been . . . difficult for you,” she said.
“Nary a bit of romance in it, that’s for sure. Rather hard work, really. I was very lucky, unlike most of the men who came here.”
“I imagine it was more hard work, rather,” Chauncey observed dryly. “Is it a rule among men that they make light of grueling experiences? Prove that they’re invincible and all that?”
He laughed. “Would I impress you if I told you about all those bloody mosquitoes that attacked my poor body? And the discomfort of standing in waist-deep water panning for gold?”
“Oh look,” Chauncey said suddenly. “There’s no one here! Sand dunes everywhere!”
“I can’t get too close, Mr. Saxton,” Lucas said over his shoulder. “The wheels will get stuck in the sand.”
“Stop at the next rise, Luc. I’ll assist Miss Jameson down to the shore.”
The rough path was covered with swirling sand despite the scraggly bushes someone had planted alongside it to keep it clear. The air was cooler, and suddenly Chauncey could smell the ocean.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, waving at the sea gulls hovering overhead. “And no one is here. It is all ours.”
“Yes,” Delaney said, “yes, it is. Right here is fine, Luc.”
Lucas pulled Stud to a halt atop the last rise. Spread in front of them was the Pacific Ocean, sparkling blue, like winking sapphires under the bright midday sun. The sound of the waves breaking toward shore was the only sound, that and the occasional squawk of a sea gull.
“Oh my,” Chauncey said, gazing about her in stunned awe. “I feel like I’m the first person to see it. I wonder if this is what an explorer feels like.”