Coronets and Steel (5 page)

I snickered. “Are you a Russian spy?”

His brows twitched upward, then he smiled. “No. Are you?”

The wine-fueled laughter was hard to stop—not that I tried hard. “No way.” I smacked my chest with a thump. “Solid American citizen, that’s me! You’ve an accent,” I added. “The way you said ‘education.’ The linguistics profs train students to listen for those clues, you see,” I repeated the word
education
but my wine-loosened tongue couldn’t reproduce either the British or the other accent.

His gaze was steady under an ironic brow lift. “Like they trained you to speak French?”

This time I didn’t use Dad’s point-and-shoot, but my grandmother’s airy, elegant gesture. “I told you, I learned my French at home. In fact, I scraped up my tuition money this year by student-teaching
je suis, tu es, il, elle est.
”

“Do all Americans speak French at home?”

“No,” I said softly as I remembered my grandmother smiling proudly at me. “Grandmère’s English is okay but she never spoke it with me. She used to say,
‘Though times have changed and changed again since I was small, I don’t believe you will ever be sorry to speak French like a Parisian lady. This is the only gift I can give to you, Aurelia Kim—’
”

He set his wineglass down with a precise movement, and despite the roar of noise in the background I heard the ring of glass on the hardwood, which broke my reverie.

I sighed. “I never got what she meant by that. She was always doing things for me.”

Alec’s gaze was steady, reflecting the glitter of the atmospheric candles set in sconces. His expression was assessing in a way that I found odd.

“Sorry. I’m babbling,” I said. “But I usually don’t drink during the day. Hey,” I made a discovery. “We killed that whole liter! And,” I added, “I need to make a restroom run.”

“I can show you where it is.”

“You’re on.”

We wound our way back through the increasing crowds of patrons and up two flights of stone steps.

When I came out Alec was there, lounging against the wall, cell phone in hand. When I stepped near he snapped the cell shut and straightened. I bit my lips and said, “I could’ve found my way back. Actually we were done, weren’t we? I know I’d best not drink anymore, so I think I’ll shove along. Well, it’s been—”

“How about a last toast. I ordered a half-liter, and I’d better pay for it, at least.”

I peered up into those enigmatic light blue eyes, looking for the warning smirk or leer that would herald the usual come-on.

Nothing. No expression at all.

“Oh, may’s well. One more.
Only
one.” I shrugged recklessly. “And then I’m outta here.”

“Thank you.” He gestured politely for me to go before him.

Presently we were at the booth again, and there was a half-liter, with fresh glasses. “Catch the waiter’s eye?” Alec murmured as we slid in.

Obligingly I leaned out, watching a trifle blearily as the waiter appeared and served the loud gentlemen. Finally I succeeded in catching the waiter’s attention, and sat back in triumph as Alec placed a full glass before me. Alec paid, then raised his glass in a silent salute.

I said, “To Vienna!”

“Vienna,” he repeated. He reached across the table and touched his glass against mine, then with a quick movement he drank his wine off.

I started to follow suit (with a suitable flourish) but stopped halfway. I’d drunk too much already, and besides, this wine was different, subtly bitter. I put my glass down and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder. “Okay, I’m done,” I said. “Whew, that stuff is too dry for me.”

“I apologize for the taste.”

“No problemo! Not your fault. Probably a newer bottle than the last.” I smiled, but the room had turned stuffy and warm. I drew in a slow breath. “Well, Mr. Da—” (cough) “—um, Alec. It’s been nice.”

If he noticed the slip, he gave no sign. “I’ll walk out with you. No wish to stay and drink alone.”

“Okay.” I laughed inanely as I slid out from my bench.

Once again I was giddy, as if I had grown to a height of seven or eight feet. Light gleamed brightly off people’s faces, glasses, watches, clothes, and the shadows behind them grayed and blurred, overlaying the guests here with more fanciful images of people in historical costume, as if my imagination was channeling the past.

I didn’t think I was
that
drunk, I thought blurrily.

A strange sense of distance—a recklessness—swept through me and I threw my head back to look up at Alec’s face. He was right behind me. I stumbled, and his hand moved swiftly to my arm to help me restore my balance.

“Thanks. Ech. I feel strange. But it was fun,” I rambled on. “I must say,” I added, my tongue ranging as freely as my thoughts, “if this was a pickup—and I’m so glad it’s not—it was the weirdest I ever had.”

“Did you want to be picked up?” he returned, smiling. “Watch that step,” he added under his breath.

“No. Yes. No. Don’t want complications,” I mumbled, staring up the stairway I’d come down a few minutes before without any problems. It seemed to stretch up for miles. “Oxygen, that’s what I need. No air in here.” I tried a dramatic turn, and stumbled. “Came along cuz . . . you seemed like Mr. Darcy. Not Mr. Darcy.” In case he misconstrued, I added, “Byronic villain.”

This caught him by surprise, and he laughed. It was a quick, genuine laugh, unlike the guarded countenance he’d shown me during our conversation. His smile was singularly attractive.

“Um,” I said appreciatively.

“Last flight.” He steered me with care.

By the time we reached the top, he was half holding me up. “Wha’s hap-pening?” I croaked, my lips feeling icy-cold and stiff.

“Door’s here,” Alec said kindly.

Sweet, cool air washed across my face as he guided me outside.

I sucked it in gratefully—and my knees buckled. At once two strong arms picked me up; my head rolled to the side, my perspective whirled.

From the increasingly confusing shadows emerged a green car with unfamiliar smooth lines. Alec stepped toward it. He opened the back door and smiled at me.

“Huh?”

“Let’s go home, Aurelia,” he replied gently, as the shadows merged and my eyelids drifted down.

If you’re thinking my experiences so far match that hapless scion of the Elphbergs and Rassendylls—well, just wait.

I woke up groggily and slowly, to find myself stretched out on a narrow bed with another bunk a couple of feet above me. A steady rhythm penetrated into my aching brain . . .
lank-lank, thunk-thunk . . . lank-lank, thunk-thunk
. . . as my bed quivered—

A train? I was on a train?

Adrenalin burned from my aching brain to my feet. I threw off the light blanket covering me and sat up. My head throbbed as a sharp odor of stale wine drifted up from my clothes.

I was still wearing my clothes, right down to my sandals.

Okay, good news? I hadn’t been molested.

Bad news?
I was on a train in the middle of nowhere.

I took in the tidy, impersonal compartment of a wagon-lit, trying to comprehend that I was awake. And here.

Next to the bed someone had thoughtfully put a couple of bottles of Evian. I grabbed one and barely had the strength to twist off the top.

I chugged the water and sat back, breathing gently, as the residual pain gradually began to diminish. After I finished the water I felt well enough to look around. I sustained another nasty shock when I spotted my suitcase lying on the suitcase rack.

Memories surfaced murkily: laughing uncontrollably in the pensione lobby; being unable to stand on my own and thinking it terribly hilarious; the blaring voice echoing through the loudspeaker at the train station as I tried to walk across the wide, glaringly lit main hall with—

I winced and shook my head despite the headache. My hairclip was loose, yanking on my scalp. I removed the clip and my hair rolled down and hit the bunk behind me with a soft
plop.
Massaging my scalp slowly, I thought back. I remembered stumbling and laughing, my arm up around a male shoulder as a strong hand gripped my waist . . . my own flat but enthusiastic soprano joining a pleasing light baritone in singing old Beatles tunes.

I glared at my suitcase. I never told Alec where I was staying, yet the green car had driven straight to my pensione, with me giggling drunkenly in the back of it. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to remember what the voices around me had said, and I remembered nothing. Nothing but those Beatles songs . . . and the vaguest, most ephemeral memory of a voice floating somewhere nearby as at last I stretched out and shut my eyes, “Sleep well, Aurelia. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Right,
I thought, planting my feet on the floor.
Like hell we will.

Ignoring the throbbing in my head, I pulled the suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. There were my clothes, pretty much as I had left them. But my passport, my plane ticket for the return home, even the letters to Lisa and my folks that I’d begun on the train between Paris and Vienna, all were gone from the side pocket where I had kept them. I slapped my jeans pocket—my wallet was missing as well.

I yanked the zipper shut, jammed my hair clip back over my coiled braid to anchor it, and stalked to the compartment door.

I reached toward the handle to slam it open, then froze. Wait a minute. Whatever’s going on, no one knows I’m awake yet. This might be an advantage.

There was a small window beyond my shoulder, with the shade modestly pulled down. I put my eye up to the crack between the shade and the window and peered out.

In one direction I saw an empty train passageway with windows looking out onto swiftly passing hilly scenery. Not so in the other direction. Leaning against the window staring out was the gray-bearded man in the Tyrolean suit whom I had seen at least once in Vienna after our encounter on the Glorietta at Schönbrunn.

A kidnapping, I thought. No, an honest-to-Regency-romance
abduction
. But why me? I was neither rich nor important.

One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going to hang around long enough to find out why.

Surely someone nosed in to check on me from time to time. They would in a mystery! I retreated to the bed and stretched out under the blanket again while I tried to plan my next step.

What do I know? An English (?) guy who calls himself Alec, possibly teamed up with a short man who wears a Tyrolean suit, abducted me, and stuck me on a train—?

Anything else: zip.

Not much to go on.

The
lank-lank, thunk-thunk
was gradually slowing. Not a minute later my door clicked and slid slowly open. My heart started thumping but I kept my breathing even and my eyes shut. Five or ten seconds that seemed like half an hour passed and then the door quietly slid shut again.
Click.

I sprang up. Grabbed my suitcase. This was an old train car, with windows that opened. I forced my shaking fingers to ease the window down.

A quick glance over my shoulder showed the curtain trembling in the new current of air that rushed into the compartment. I stuck my head out again, the air buffeting my face. If I was going to jump, I had to do it before they pulled into whatever station was coming up.

I leaned farther. Hilly pastureland and no people or houses in sight.

I levered my suitcase out, swung it, and dropped it as gently as I could, shoved a leg out, the other, then—carefully—my head, clinging to the upper part of the window with my fingers.

Count to three. Hold my breath, tighten my guts. I braced my feet against the side of the train, and—
one, two, three!
—jumped.

And hit with a thud that knocked my breath out. I tumbled like a rag doll, terrifyingly aware of the roaring clash of train wheels nearby. When I stopped rolling I lay gasping, grateful to be alive, until the last few cars passed. Then raised my head. My vision swam as the train thundered on down the track. No alarms sounded; no sudden braking sent up sparks.

I wavered to my feet. One shoulder throbbed like a buffalo had stomped it, and a stone or something had gouged my rump during my roll down the embankment. I was amazed that I’d made it.

I began a lead-footed lope back along the tracks to find my suitcase. It seemed a mile away, though it was probably only five hundred yards, if that, and it was surprisingly intact, aside from one of the wheels being bent.

As I straightened up I caught sight of a patient group of cattle on a hillock on the other side of the tracks. The creatures stood motionless, watching me. When you only see cows on TV, you don’t notice that they are
large.
Cow attacks are not a big part of TV action sequences, but I was too shaky to take any chances. Doing a one-eighty, I struck out in the opposite direction. The cockeyed suitcase wheels promptly tried to roll in different directions, so I picked the thing up by its handle.