Forever and a Day (10 page)

Touched by her candor, he nodded. “I am genuinely touched, madam, that you care enough to apologize. Thank you.”

She half smiled. “There you go with that ‘madam’ again.” She wagged a playful finger. “You’d best not be usin’ that around women.”

“Oh?” he chided gently. “And why is that?”

“Because every woman in the area will maul you for a chance to hear it. They’re used to associatin’ with knights of the broom, hoe and shovel, not a gentleman with an impressive face and body to match.”

His lips trembled as he fought off a grin. “You find my face and body impressive?”

“Oh, now, don’t let it go to your head. ’Tis a warnin’ to ensure you live into old age, is all. Men around here are monstrously territorial when it comes to their women. The wrong look at the wrong woman and you’re dead. Try to remember that.”

He lifted a brow and thumbed toward the wall. “That would explain John Andrew Malloy over there. Were you and he ever…?”

She glanced off to the side and sighed. “It didn’t last. He wasn’t lookin’ to go west and I wasn’t lookin’ to be chained to a life full of babes here at the tenement. So I ended it before it got too serious and the poor sop hasn’t recovered since.”

Jealousy hit hard as he realized she had probably done far more than kiss the man, given the bastard’s need to ride whores. The acrid sensation of grudging envy eerily whispered of something he knew all too well. “Did it ever go beyond a kiss?”

She glared at him. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“Considering I dodged a fist for you, I would say it is. How did you become involved with him and all of these men, anyway? Who are they to you?”

She untied the apron from around her waist and smacked it onto the bed. “Raymond was one of the original founders, when they were still meetin’ over on Centre Street. By marryin’ Raymond, I married into their way of life, and when he died, I was left with Matthew and Coleman and a group of men who
still
think I’m some queen bee in need of coddlin’. Bastards. I can’t wait to be rid of them.”

Robinson slowly crossed his arms over his chest and glanced down at the wood floor beneath his booted feet, feeling himself momentarily drift. That name. Coleman. Where did he know it from? “Who is Coleman?”

“He’s a dark, dark soul, that one. After Raymond died, both he and Matthew split all rights to the group and it’s been like that since.”

Mr. Coleman, your own papers are enough to condemn you.

He glanced up, both brows popping up. “How utterly bizarre. Edward Coleman is the name of an English Catholic courtier who had been hanged, drawn and quartered for treason in 1678. Though, obviously, given the year, it cannot be the same Coleman.”

Her eyes jumped up to study his face. “You remember the oddest of things. If only you could remember somethin’ we could actually use. You know, like your full name and address? Even the name of your dog would be more helpful than you tossin’ out the name of some
Catholic
who’s been dead since 1678.”

He couldn’t help wondering if the only reason she wanted him to remember was so she could collect her money and be rid of him. “I only hope you aren’t disillusioning yourself into thinking that my six dollars is going to buy you anything but disappointment.”

She squinted at him. “Don’t you be talkin’ down at me when all but earlier you were wantin’ my land and my apple trees.”

He set his chin, annoyance digging into him. “’Twas a momentary lapse in judgment I don’t intend to replicate.”

“Pff. You’re only irked because you know I’m right. Now get into bed, already.” Turning toward a cracked mirror on the wall behind her, she slid out pins from her hair. In a single sweep, that heavy mass of pretty, thick hair cascaded past her slim shoulders, swaying against her waist and backside.

He edged back, resisting his own stupid urge to frantically peel away everything and get into bed with her. “I probably shouldn’t sleep with you, Georgia.”

She lowered her chin. “There’s no need to overthink this, Robinson. Beds are used for sleep, too, you know.”

He shook his head. “No. If I get into bed with you, sleep will be the last thing on my mind. That I know. Isn’t there another place for me to sleep?”

She sighed. “If you want to break your back and share the floor with the roaches, by all means. I don’t care. I was tryin’ to be hospitable, is all.”

Roaches. Oh, that was not good. He knew what those were from his stay at the hospital and could already hear the sound of their wiry feet darting toward him. “I’ll sleep in a chair.”

She smirked. “We’ll see how long that lasts,
Mr. Silver Buttons
. There’s a basin full of fresh water on the sideboard there in the front room if you need to wash up. I’ve got extra chalk and a brush for your teeth, too. As for the privy, it’s in the back of the buildin’. Now, good night, Brit.”

“Good night,” he called as he settled into his chair for a long night. He shifted against the rickety chair, paused and shifted again, unable to get comfortable. This was clearly going to be the beginning of hell.

CHAPTER SIX

’Tis the common wonder of all men, how among so
many millions of faces, there should be none alike.

—Thomas Browne,
Religio Medici
(1642)

O
DD
.

Georgia’s eyes fluttered open, thinking she’d heard her name in the distance. She scrambled up in bed, dragging the rough linen with her, and blinked, only to find everything was at a lull. Bright summer light peered in through the open doorway from the narrow windows of the front room beyond. Was it morning already?

The entrance door outside the low closet suddenly jumped against its hinges, making her jump along with it.

“Georgia Emily!”
Matthew bellowed from the other side. “Open the door.
Now!
”

Robinson’s large frame stumbled out of the chair he’d been sleeping in, his chest heaving from the unexpected assault on the silence. Glancing toward her through the open door of the low closet, he paused. “You.”

“Yes, me,” she assured him, pushing aside the linen. “You do remember me, I hope.”

“All too well.” Reaching down toward the chair, he grabbed up his coat and jerked it up and onto his arms and broad shoulders, covering his shirt and buttonless waistcoat. He glanced toward her, clearing his throat and smoothing his scattered black hair away from his face.

A thundering crack echoed within the room as the door jumped against the bolts again.
“Georgia!”
Matthew boomed from the other side. “Open the door!”

Robinson thumbed toward the door. “I hope to God you aren’t letting him in. He doesn’t sound friendly.”

She stifled a laugh and pulled her homespun nightdress down over her exposed legs, scooting out of bed. “He’s not all that bad.” She hurried out of the small room.

The door jumped again against all three bolts.
“Georgia!”

“I heard you the first time!”
she belted out, squeezing past Robinson.

Robinson leaned back and snapped up both hands so as not to touch her. “You should get dressed,” he gruffly offered, glancing away. “I can see your chemise and corset through that flimsy nightdress of yours.”

“’Tis only Matthew. Raymond’s boy. I could walk around naked and that man still wouldn’t look. Not that I would walk around naked. I’m just sayin’.”

Robinson pressed himself farther against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. “Can you pass?”

She purposefully leaned in closer knowing their close proximity was flustering him. It was all too charming. “This may be your only chance of seein’ all the goods, Brit. Revel in it.” She caught the tip of her tongue with her teeth and playfully poked him in the chest. “Stay where you are and
don’t
mouth off, lest we have a repeat of yesterday.” Scurrying over to the door in bare feet, she unbolted the latches and cracked it open.

A booted foot shot out, giving her a jolt.

Georgia jumped back as the door flew open and slammed against the wall, shaking her pots in the cupboard. “Was that necessary given that I was already openin’ the door?”

Matthew loomed in the doorway, meeting her gaze with a single penetrating coal-black eye. The faded brown leather patch that covered his blind eye had been crookedly affixed against his sun-tinted chestnut hair as if he’d barely remembered to put it on. His frayed linen shirt was still unlaced and he hadn’t even bothered to tuck it into his wool trousers.

Georgia held out a hand. “You’re overreacting. You know John is still sore about me not takin’ him back, so I wouldn’t believe a word of anythin’ he says.”

Matthew lowered his stubbled chin. “If this British
fop
of yours didn’t stay the night, then he has nothing to worry about, does he?” He shoved past her and strode into the room. Glancing toward Robinson, he slowly shook his head. “But he
did
stay the night. So he’s dead.”

Reaching beneath his shirt, Matthew withdrew a pistol from the leather holster sitting on his hips and coolly leveled the pistol at Robinson’s head. He cocked it. “Step outside, Brit. I don’t want to get blood all over the walls.”

“Matthew!”
She jumped between him and Robinson, her pulse roaring, and pressed her body protectively against Robinson’s frame, widening her stance. “Do you remember the man who was hospitalized for tryin’ to reclaim my reticule? The one I told you about? Well, this be him. I’m boardin’ him. He promised me six dollars if I’d take him in for the month and you
know
I need the money if I’m ever to move west.”

Matthew didn’t bother to lower his pistol. Instead, he offered her a blunt, wry stare and angled the muzzle menacingly down at her. “Six dollars for rent? When he can easily board himself down the street for three cents a day? Are you bloody yanking my cacks, Georgia? Hell, for six dollars,
I’d
feck him and take him in.”

She narrowed her gaze, not in the least amused. “Whether I’m feckin’ him or not is neither your business nor John’s.” She reached out and pushed the pistol away from her face in disgust. “Look at you. Pointin’ a pistol at me like some Quaker on opium out to shoot himself a few Irish. Your father would spit upon your behavior if he saw this. I may be younger than you, Matthew, but I’m still legally your mother and I’m not afraid to take a crop to your head. So leave off. You hear? Leave off and never touch this man or point anythin’ at him again, or by Joseph, I’ll feck him in front of
you
and
John
and all of Five Points just to shut everyone up!”

Silence pulsed within the room.

Robinson’s large hand pressed against the small of her back and curved possessively around the waist of her nightdress, making her heart pound. He dragged her back against the muscled heat of his body, as if he’d been riled by raw pride.

She drew in a shaky breath and let it out, trying not to focus on the fact that her entire backside was now draped against Robinson’s entire front side. She reached back and gently pinched his muscled thigh through the smooth fabric of his trousers for being bold enough to actually grope her in front of Matthew’s still-pointed pistol.

Matthew sighed and lowered the gun. “What’s his name?”

“Robinson Crusoe,” she obliged.

Matthew arched a brow. “His name is
Robinson Crusoe?
” He snorted dismissively. “Lest you forget,
Mum,
I grew up with personal tutors and read the damn book in its entirety at an age when you were barely crawling. What’s his
real
name?”

She sighed. “He doesn’t know his name, Matthew, and hasn’t been able to remember much of anythin’ since he awoke in the hospital. Dr. Carter is tryin’ to locate his family, and I’m givin’ him a place to stay and watchin’ over him.”

Matthew squinted at her with his visible eye, the patch shifting against his cheekbone. “The devil, you say. He can’t remember his own born name?”

“No, he can’t,” she insisted. “Dr. Carter calls it ‘memory loss.’”

“Memory loss
?
What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know! He just can’t remember things.”

Matthew squinted at her again. “Can he at least talk? Or did he
conveniently
forget that, too?”

“I can talk, Mr. Milton,” Robinson interjected in a chiding tone. “And despite your doubts pertaining to my condition, I assure you, ’tis
extremely
inconvenient being in my own head. I suggest you put the pistol away.”

Matthew popped up the pistol and pointed it at Robinson’s head on an angle. “I don’t do
soft
merely because a man asks me to. Georgia might not have a reputation to uphold, but
I
do.”

Georgia jumped forward at the insult, snapping up a rigid fist. “You’re about to get cropped!”

Robinson swept out a quick hand, forcing her back and away from Matthew with the length of his muscled arm. “Mr. Milton. Georgia mentioned that you may be in need of funds. I would be more than willing to provide a monetary contribution to bring an end to this hostility.”

Georgia lowered her fist and glanced up at Robinson, who intently stared Matthew down, clearly not intimidated by the pistol pointed at his head.

Bravo
. It would appear Robinson was far savvier than she’d thought. Matthew, after all, was a walking almshouse willing to set aside
everything
in the name of money.

Matthew lowered his pistol. “Consider me a friend the moment your generosity touches this hand,
Mr. Crusoe
.” Uncocking the pistol with a swift movement, he tucked it back into the leather holster on his hip, burying it beneath his untucked shirt. Matthew swiped his palm against the thigh of his trousers, reached out and shook Robinson’s hand. “I’ve never willingly shook a Brit’s paw before, but I’m a man of business first and foremost and providing for my boys
is
my business.”

Matthew adjusted his faded leather patch the way he always did when excited about something and casually inquired, “Exactly how much money are we talking here? I need clothes, boots, food, maps, parchments, ink, wax, quills and books. And that’s just the short list. Whilst Coleman teaches our men how to better fight, I teach them how to read and write so they can fully understand their rights as is scribed in the United States Constitution. Because my motto is what my father’s was—muscle is of little worth if there is no thought behind it. That is how and why Ali Baba dismantled all forty thieves and that is why we call ourselves such.”

Robinson let out a whistle. “
That
is not at all what I expected from a group of gallivanting thieves.”

Matthew inclined his head. “We only steal when we have to. Which, sadly, is most of the time, given the expense of maintaining and educating forty men.” Gesturing toward the wall, Matthew shook his head. “John over there is
still
at the level of reading that would shame a bogtrotter and can’t write legibly for shite. I told him just this morn, when he pranced over huffing about you and Georgia, that until he’s at a respectable level of education,
no
woman will respect him. Especially Georgia here, who was mentored by my own father. I was barely twenty when I first met her. She was naught more than a scrap he took in after finding her asleep in his coal bin, looking like the dirty angel she still is. At the time, she didn’t even know what the hell a quill was for. Now look at her. She outreads me, outwrites me, outwits me and even finds the men around these parts to be so damn stupid, she’s heading out west.”

Robinson paused and glanced over at her, capturing her gaze. His gray eyes simmered with genuine admiration. “I find her to be utterly remarkable,” he admitted huskily.

Her pulse skipped.

Averting his gaze to Matthew, Robinson casually remarked, “Thievery and pistols aside, Mr. Milton, I admire that you seek to educate these men. Without an education, they can’t think for themselves, let alone rise above circumstance.”