AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon Read online

Anger welled up with all the force of a gale storm to vapor Alma’s momentary horror. How dare he toy with her emotions in such a vulgar manner?

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” the train steward asked, drawing her instant glare. He hovered near her elbow, a tray of empty shot glasses clutched in his battered hands. “Can I fetch you somethin’ to make the journey more enjoyable?”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “I would like an immediate passage from this nightmare.”

  “Sorry, but we ain’t stoppin’ again ‘til we reach Vincennes.” He issued a sympathetic smile, then moved off down the aisle.

  The baby behind her wailed.

  The persistent cigar smoke swirled.

  No escape … Alma’s frustrations grew.

  A throaty chuckle rolled from beneath the wide brim of his hat and she glared at her companion.

  The beast had the audacity to laugh?

  Chapter Three

  “So I gather this trip wasn’t your idea?”

  The deep voice startled Alma. She pried open her eyes and focused on her companion.

  Dillon stared out the window into the darkness beyond.

  Did I just imagine the knuckle-dragging mongrel spoke to me?

  He looked over, his eyes illumed with a perplexing intensity. “This trip, was it your choice?”

  Teetering hours-on-end near the precipice of an abysmal hell, Alma released a boorish snort. “I told you. Though I’d planned my wedding for August when Lord Green returned, Father insisted I marry as soon as possible. It’s loathsome, to say the least.” She was languishing from sheer boredom – the only logical reason for her to make such a candid disclosure. Not to mention the distressful fact that her father had ushered her out of Boston beneath the cloak of darkness. Her nerves still jangled from his odd behavior.

  The scout traced the metal framework where glass met steel. “Why not just tell him you didn’t want to leave?”

  “Mister Reed…” Alma exhaled, straightening in her seat. “…one does not tell Charles Talmadge anything. He tells you. When he met the earl through business dealings, my fate was sealed. Besides…I completely approve of his choice.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “My father? Of course, I love him.”

  “No.” His gaze penetrated…unsettling in its pull. “Your fiancé. Do you love him?”

  She tightened her jaw, uneasy with their conversation’s sudden twist. “Now that is surely none of your business.”

  “So, I take it you don’t.” He refolded his arms over his chest. “And you’re probably marrying him because of his supposed importance – Lord Half-wit being titled and all.”

  She chafed at his satiric disrespect for Lord Green. “I am uncomfortable with all this prying.” Another detestable bead of perspiration trickled down behind her ear. She raised a shoulder to swipe away the moisture, mentally counting the days until she could submerge herself inside the rose-infused depths of another bath.

  “Are you now?” He chuckled. “We’re talking. You should be tickled pink.”

  Her chin shot up. “Well, I’m not.” At what point had this man decided to mock her on her choice of husband? The nerve of this pompous ass.

  “Look, I’m not here to judge you–”

  “But you are. And you don’t even know me.” She shoved back a limp curl. “Why do you insist on being so…uncouth?”

  He stared at her with dark eyes narrowed. “It’s who you are, Miss Talmadge. Your type.”

  The oppressive warmth of the train’s compartment was nowhere near as suffocating as the heat now pulsing her veins. “And what type might that be…exactly?”

  They glared at one another, the muffled clackety-clack of the train’s wheels matching them breath for breath.

  “Forget it,” he growled, trailing his gaze back to the window.

  Outrage slammed through her. “Oh, but I insist you tell me, Mister Reed. What type of woman offends you so much you would utter such an insulting tone?”

  His head whipped around, his days-old beard—a sable swath across the lower half of his face—delineating a rigid jaw. “Alright then, I’ll tell you. The type whose wealth and beauty only emphasize her rapacious nature.”

  “Perhaps you feel so strongly because you’re ignorant of society’s ways.”

  He gave a brittle laugh. “I learned all I need to know from my mother.”

  “Your mother?” Alma heaved an exaggerated sigh, thrusting back against the leather seat. “I’m shocked someone as coarse as you would even have one.” The ache in her heart blossomed at the utterance of mother; she missed her own so much. “Besides, what does your mother have to do with your abhorrent lack of manners? Other than obviously not teaching you any of your own.” Shame filled her at her comment as she fought back an imbecilic need to weep. She knew better than to be so rude, knew the impact of how words hurt, but the cad prodded her when normally she’d never utter such spiteful comments.

  Dillon placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward, his elbows splayed. His nose nearly touched hers. “Her people were just like you, Princess. All sharp-clawed and demanding.” His gravelly whisper spiraled through the shadows to brush her face. A shiver prickled through her. “Those same socialized sonsofbitches pushed her out the door…and straight out of their lives. And because of that, I was left to pick up the miserable pieces of what became of my family.”

  Alma’s face blazed. “What? I’m unable to respond when you mumble in such riddles.” She clutched gloved hands together in her lap, trying to ignore the damning resentment in his eyes.

  He stood and loomed above her, his gaze locked with hers. A mere heartbeat elapsed before his lips crooked into a deprecating grin. “Then I shall remember to keep you confused throughout this entire journey.”

  He brushed passed her.

  Alma twisted in her seat, scowling at his retreating form.

  The low-lit oil lamps hanging from their polished brackets flickered, sending gamboling shadows up all four walls as Dillon stalked to the end of the aisle. He jerked open the door.

  Clackety. Clackety. Clackety.

  The cacophony of the train’s wheels rattled through the chamber, waking the sleeping passengers. The baby resumed the same high-pitched wail he’d been sharing all afternoon.

  Her escort stepped outside and shoved the portal closed, muffling the grinding sound of metal against metal.

  Alma stared through the door’s single-paned window as Dillon Reed’s broad-shouldered form entered the attached gaming car, then disappeared from view. In all her years, no one had ever stormed away from her like that – no one. She curled her hands over the back of the seat, her fingers pressing against cool brass studs anchoring leather.

  But…h-he’s supposed to stay with me.

  Faster than she could blink them away, tears welled in her eyes. As frightening as this unknown land stretching mile after endless mile before her, now an unbalanced sense of abandonment encompassed her.

  Chapter Four

  Boston, that same evening

  Charles Talmadge exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the air. The fragrant cloud mingled with the pleasing aromas of liquor and leather appointments in the parlor. Ah, yes. I shall sorely miss this place.

  Settling deeper into the overstuffed wingback, he stretched his legs and rested his booted feet atop a stool. He relished his hard-won position as president of the Eastern Yacht Club. And among the many changes he’d initiated, last year’s renovation of this room had been his most aggressive. Elegance now encompassed every inch of the once-dowdy gentleman’s establishment. Floor-to-ceiling draperies hugged the windows, and cranberry-colored velvet trimmed with gold-corded fringe held back Boston’s inclement weather, as well as the tawdry simpletons who toiled on the docks beyond.

  The very same docks where I once labored.

  He shook off the remembrance and continued his perusal. Expensive paneling lined the walls, a twelve-foot high palisade of unadulterated Massachusetts timber cut
from the dense walnut forest on his estate. He rested his head against the chair’s brocaded back as a seldom-used smile tugged at his lips.

  Charles lifted his cheroot, then tightened his mouth around the fine Virginia tobacco, pulling in another blistering bite. Smoke burned the back of his throat as he savored the first-rate Dunnington. He glanced to the sideboard. Smack-dab in the middle sat a small chest of quartersawn oak. Last month he’d purchased the stylish humidor once owned by Thomas Jefferson.

  A fact that only added to his extreme pleasure.

  If only Margaret could see me now. He shoved aside the pang of sorrow at the memory of his wife. Her absence remained as raw as her sudden passing had been a dozen years before, and no amount of whoring could ever replace her. Thank God their baby girl, now fully grown … and a striking beauty like her mother … was out of harm’s way and traveling westward to the English nobleman who would keep her shielded from life’s brutalities.

  A brutality I created.

  The shocking warning he’d received last week, via a hastily-scribbled note had given him ample time to set his plans into motion. Again he offered thanks for the skilled escort his brother had provided on such short notice. An army scout. Dillon Reed. The gun-slinging bastard had damn-well better keep Alma safe, or Charles would shoot the man himself.

  Clinking glasses lured his gaze back to his companions. Some read newspapers. Others chatted in hushed voices, but everyone in this room, as well as in the attached gaming hall, were counted among the important men of America.

  And every one of you bore the living hell out of me.

  An old crony, the owner of a well-traveled rail line in Massachusetts, lifted a decanter and motioned in Charles’s direction.

  Charles nodded. “But make it a small one, Ernest. I’m bound for England at dawn. Don’t want to miss the boat.” He restacked his expensive Wellingtons into a more comfortable position on the tufted footstool, then leaned back and took another long draw. Curling his mouth to form an O, he exhaled wispy rings. The smoke defused the lamplight’s shine, then faded. Charles smiled as once more the gilded glow illuminated the grandeur of the hammered gold ceiling tiles above his head. Another one of my additions. The subtle sounds of splashing cognac and low laughter ebbing from the gaming salon drew his attention.

  “It’s unlike you to mingle with the help,” said a nearby companion, the owner of several shopping pavilions along the eastern seaboard. The man set his drink on a mahogany side table next to the divan. “Do they even know you’re coming?”

  “No, but the captain’ll clear out his quarters soon enough. After all, I own the damn shipping line.”

  Their laughter blended as Charles propped his cigar in a nearby ashtray. He accepted the proffered drink and squelched the urge to hide his hands, calloused and arthritic from years of pulling rigging and rope. How he hated the unsightly reminder of his early years.

  From its lofty roost above the mantle, a Thomas Eakins painting—his most recent gift to the club—glowed in the lamplight. Flickering shadows breathed into life a fully-rigged Dutch schooner, its sleek bow cutting through the waves as foamy sea spray billowed into a glorious white arch across the canvas.

  The siren’s sweet call echoed through Charles’s mind.

  The click of billiard balls in the adjoining room drifted through the wide-arched opening to emphasize the masculine nuances of…his club. Sighing, Charles raised his glass and took an appreciative sip. If only White’s, in London, possessed the same comfortable complexities as this place, rather than the stick-up-their-asses stuffiness insisted upon by the Brits.

  The railroad baron who’d poured their liquor settled into the chair opposite him. “Why in the hell are you sailing to London, anyway? Rather short notice, isn’t it?”

  Charles stared at the nosy sonofabitch. To stay alive … as if it’s any of your damn business. Instead, he offered, “I’ve got urgent matters at the shipping office over there.”

  “Christ Almighty, Talmadge, send an assistant. That’s why we hire them.” The blunderbuss tipped his head back and swallowed the expensive 1858 Cuvée Leonie in one quick gulp.

  Charles stifled the urge to pommel the oaf, and instead swirled his cognac, pleased with the way the amber liquid draped its velvety ‘fingers’ with each determined revolution. He took pride in delivering only the best libations to his membership. And this particular 16-year-old elixir should be sipped with deep appreciation, not chugged as though it were fuel for some wheezing locomotive.

  An hour later Charles rose, straightening the hem of his brocade vest over his massive girth. He traversed the room, shaking hands with those still present at the late hour. He didn’t care one flying fig about most of them; nonetheless, he performed the cordialities as if he did.

  At the front entrance, he bowed. “Well, gentlemen, I shall be gone for three months, perhaps longer. While I’m away, do try to keep things together.”

  Without waiting for their replies, he turned the doorknob and exited the club.

  The footman leaning against the black-lacquered equipage peered through the darkness as he approached, then straightened. Charles glanced to the team of horses. Moonlight spilled across the two magnificent Bretons he’d just acquired from Scotland…a stalwart team to pull his newest cradle-sprung Brougham down Boston’s bricked streets.

  His steps faltered as his gaze swept back to the vehicle.

  Bloody damnation! My coach lamps aren’t lit!

  Never had his staff disobeyed a direct order; both knew he needed the extra illumination to enter the vehicle safely, more so after a night of drinking.

  Charles scanned the servant holding open the door.

  Strange…when did Abner grow so tall?

  His gaze cut to the man sitting atop the rig. With hunched shoulders, a rumpled coat and a half-empty bottle resting beside him, the driver sure as hell wasn’t Clarence, either. In fact, neither man was one of his trusted employees.

  The skin at the base of his neck prickled. Charles raked his gaze over the doorman swathed in a heavy cape from head to toe.

  Their gazes met.

  Shock slammed through the apprehension of moments before.

  Dear God. Simon Bell!

  Charles staggered backward several steps. “Y-You!” He glanced toward the Yacht Club, praying others had exited and were making their way along the cobbled path.

  The walkway remained empty.

  Sweat beaded his brow. If he tried to run, he’d be overtaken in a heartbeat. Nonetheless, he had to try. Charles turned and bolted toward the clubhouse door.

  Footsteps pounded behind him.

  A hand clamped around Charles’ upper arm, jerking him back around. Charles wheezed and gulped for air as he glared into the cold eyes of his attacker. With the cape’s hood fallen back, moonlight drenched well-defined features.

  “You can’t outrun me, old man.” Simon’s eyes were raw with hate. And a heartbeat later, he angled a dagger against the rapid rise and fall of Charles’s chest. Moonlight glinted off etched steel. Charles groaned when the thin blade pressed where brocade pulled taut across his pounding heart. “You’ve a debt to settle that is long past due.”

  Terror welled within as the stench of cheap whiskey wafted over Charles, evoking memories of a wharf tavern, the wench who lived upstairs, and a tow-headed toddler darting among buoys and ropes and lobster traps scattered along a wooden pier. But a whore was a whore, and held no place in his swift rise to the top.

  Now, that toddler stood before him fully grown.

  “W-What do you want? “ Charles stammered, sweat slicking his brow. “I-I’ve paid your mother for years. Her deathbed letter last week warned me of your anger. But, you needn’t worry…I’ll continue to pay.”

  “You’ll pay?” The mocking question oozed into the night. “By God yes, you’ll pay.” The dagger pressed deeper, and Charles swallowed back another moan as the tip bit into his skin. A scream locked in his chest. “I’ve waited this long o
nly because of her. Now, my mother is dead; a long, torturous demise wracked with pain, heartbreak and disease. Unlike yours, which shall be swift and well-deserved.” He pulled Charles forward. “And nothing is going to stop me,” he hissed with unhinged vengeance. “Not you. Not your daughter, whom I shall kill next. Not even your goddamned money, Father.”

  Simon’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight around his smile, and then, with a strong thrust, his bastard son drove the blade deep into Charles’s heart.

  Chapter Five

  St. Louis reigned supreme as a major trading hub since the completion of their imposing railroad bridge over the Mississippi. Indeed, the world’s longest railed connection arched over one of the world’s longest rivers with enough height to allow the tallest steamboat passage beneath without leaving a single soot stain on the triple-spanned beams. The pier and abutment caissons, the deepest ever sunk, stood firm in the stalwart Missouri granite which anchored the colossal structure into earth. America’s expansion westward ignited here as progress now bulged the seams of the once-quaint river town.

  With a firm grip on Miss Talmadge’s elbow, Dillon guided his companion away from the passenger car and down the platform leading to the depot. Crossing the threshold, they entered the dimly lit building. Small by eastern standards and nowhere near prepared to receive such a flow of humanity, the shadow-filled depot could scarcely contain the influx of travelers. He scanned the room looking for anything amiss. Habits were hard to break, even in the middle of civilization.

  As he started to relax, a man bumped against his charge, pitching her against him. Dillon glanced at the culprit, the same man he’d caught staring at Alma on the train.

  To warn the man Miss Talmadge was beneath his protection, Dillon wrapped his arm around her shoulder and glanced at her.

  A moment later, she slipped her right arm through the crook of his left one. Dillon nodded – surprised at how well they fit together. Obviously, she’d forgiven him for his earlier crassness last evening of momentarily leaving her alone in favor of the gaming car. He shoved aside the bewildering thought, plowed into the bustling throng, and made a beeline for the front door. She stuck to his side like a burr against wool, allowing them to move at an even faster clip.