Running Wild (23 page)

Which left Nick and Huntington, and Nick didn’t trust
Huntington as far as he could throw him. He half-suspected Huntington was
Romeo.

At length the waiter left, and Star turned to find him
staring at her. “Problem Nicholas?” she asked raising one silken black brow. In
the gaslight her eyes gleamed a dark, seductive gold—prettiest eyes he’d ever
seen.

He shook his head. “No problem at all, just like the way you
speak French. Orderin’ dinner is all, but you made it sound like poetry.”

“Why thank you! A compliment from
you
, Nicholas, is
rare indeed,” she said and miraculously a light blush colored her soft cheeks.
He hadn’t thought the woman
could
blush. “I confess, however, it’s not
me, but the language. All of French comes across that way.”

“Not if I spoke it.”

“Oh I ‘reckon’ you’d do just fine with practice.”

“No reason to practice when you’re with me.” He paused to
gentle his voice. “We still need to discuss that trunk.”

She started. “What?
Here
? Nicholas, if someone should
hear—the gossip. . . ”

“No one’s near enough to hear us.” He’d passed a sawbuck to
the headwaiter to guarantee their privacy. The headwaiter had discreetly
shifted the tables surrounding theirs back and had left them mostly empty.

Star glanced around. “So it appears. Did you arrange that?”

“Wasn’t hard.” He hesitated. “I—uh arranged other matters
too.”

“And what matters might those be?”

Taking a breath, he braced himself for her anger. “I asked
the hombre at the desk to move your trunk to storage. Thought you might sleep
better tonight without it in your room. If you want, though, I’ll have them
return it.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then, with a sweet smile,
she said, “Why Nicholas, that is quite thoughtful. I hadn’t thought about it,
but you’re correct, I shouldn’t have slept a wink.”

“Not too high-handed then?”

She shook her head. “No. Perhaps if you were another man . .
. but no, you did it out of kindness.”

“O.K.,” he said, relieved that he’d misjudged her. She was
reasonable even if—passionate.

Not the time to think of that. It was always hard not to,
though, when he was with her.

The waiter arrived with a bottle of wine. Turning it around,
he showed Nick the label. It was in Spanish, which Nick couldn’t read if his
life depended on it. He frowned up at the man. After a second, he shrugged and
pretended to read the label. “Very good,” he said. Summoning up all Melinda had
taught him, he performed the wine ritual. A short time later, they were alone
again with two glasses of sherry.

“You dealt with that very prettily, Nicholas,” Star said.
“I’m impressed.”

Her approval warmed his heart, for all that he thought the
ritual idiotic. He’d never fit into her world, not entirely, but he could get
by in a pinch. “Melinda taught me a few things.”

“Apparently she knows quite a bit about Society.”

“Her brothers sent her to a finishing school.” He paused,
then added, “We still need to talk about that trunk.” Her face tightened and
she nodded agreement, reaching for her water glass. “First thing, you’re going
to need new clothes.”

For all the wariness on her face, she managed a tiny smile.
“Always practicality first with you, Nicholas. I suppose I could borrow
something from Harriet MacMillan. She’s a fellow speaker. I’ll leave a message
at the desk after dinner.”

“She’s tall, then, like you?”

Her eyes flickered. “No, but closer to my height than Jane.”

“Good. Next thing to do is report this to the authorities.
Talk to the train people, too. Might be somebody knows something. He’d have to
have gotten into that baggage car.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Of course, we
don’t know for certain that it’s only one person. The movement has dealt with
mobs many times. It’s even possible that others have been . . . targeted. I’ll
question Harriet and the rest of the women tomorrow.”

Nick frowned. “You think Romeo’s working with other men? I
don’t know. That doesn’t ring true to me.”

She tilted her head in that questioning manner that he found
so appealing, and played with her earring. “Why no, but I doubt Romeo did this.
He is, after all, in love with me. A man in love does not attack a woman’s
personal effects. Moreover, to go from sending letters to—to following me? No,
it’s a man, or group of men, who wish to stop the rally.”

Damn
. She hadn’t seen it then. . . . “Ma’am—Star. . .
I guess you were too shocked when you opened that trunk to notice. It was
Romeo. When he finished cutting up your clothes, he scratched his name on the
bottom of the lid.”

Shakespeare, Hamlet

The dining room swayed; the people around Star grew blurred
and the sudden roaring in her brain drowned out the clinking of silverware and
murmur of voices. No. No, Nicholas was wrong. She couldn’t have missed that.

“Star?” Nicholas said in a low voice. He was leaning
forward, his forehead crinkled in concern. His eyes fixed upon her, dark in the
gaslight, as dark and mysterious as the midnight sky. . . .

He pushed dishes out of the way and started to slide his
hand across the table, as if to reach for hers. Then he seemed to think better
of it, and pulled it back again. Willing her mind away from the mounting panic,
she focused on that hand. The broad, dark stretch of it, the light coating of
black hair, his long fingers and neatly trimmed nails. His palms were
calloused, she knew, even after the weeks’ respite from ranching. Strong,
capable hands.

“I’m sorry,” Nicholas said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.
It’ll be O.K. We need to figure it out, that’s all.”

She raised her head to catch his eyes, cool blue wisdom. The
rushing in her ears subsided. “I—I suppose so.”

“No supposin’. It’s sure.”

“All right.”

“Good.” He straightened.

“It’s only that—well you understand this means he
followed
me. He was—he was on the train with us. And he is here, also, in Saratoga
Springs.” Romeo had meant what he’d written when he’d sent the Bible . . . and
the letters that followed. She took in a deep breath. “He’s watching me, isn’t
he? He might even be in this very dining room and I would never know.”

The waiter arrived with two bowls on a tray. He laid the
soup on the table, refilled the glasses, and then glided away. Nicholas lifted
his spoon and leaned forward to look at the soup with a frown. “I said steak
and potatoes, not soup. It’s green.”

The muscles in her neck were so tight it hurt. Yet it took
only a moment of Nicholas’s rapidly moving mind to ease the tension. “It’s
cream of asparagus. Soup with dinner aids the digestion.”

“Asparagus, huh? Well if that don’t beat the Dutch. Can’t
understand why everybody in the East wants to make vegetables into soup.” He
took a sip, squinted his eyes and nodded. “You’re right, it’s good.”

She chuckled as she started to eat. “Why, of course it is,
Nicholas. This is, after all, Saratoga Springs. The town caters to the very
rich and their finicky tastes.” A second spoonful of soup and her stomach leapt
with joy. Nicholas had been correct. She was
famished
. She took another
spoonful and swallowed the soup along with fear, at least momentarily.

He shrugged. “Just because they’ve got money doesn’t mean
they’ve got taste,” he said after several more spoonfuls.

Star reached the bottom of her bowl far more quickly than
good manners would dictate, but Nicholas wouldn’t care. She sat back. “My
father would very much agree with you.”

He grinned. “Yeah. Kind of a snob, your pa,” he said
finishing his soup.

Star laughed as he sat back. “That, sir, is an
understatement! Oh Nicholas, you
do
make me laugh! Although you must own
that Father likes
you
well enough. Snob though he is, he’s generally a
fine judge of character.”

“Or easily bamboozled by a sly ol’ cowpoke like me,” he
said. Before she could comment, he added abruptly. “Now listen, we’ve got to
get back to Romeo.”

Her heart jerked. Oh, thank God she saw the waiter
approaching. “Perhaps later. Here comes the fish dish.”

“Fish too? But all I—”

The waiter took the bowls away and laid covers in front of
them. With it came another bottle of wine—a Riesling this time. Nicholas
scowled, then shrugged and went through the ritual again. The waiter left. “You
ordered the wines?” he asked as they started eating.

“I did. One must have the correct wine for each course.”

He shook his head, his face creased with the merry confusion
that so tickled her funny bone. “I’d have figured one wine is enough for the
whole blamed meal. I’ll give you credit though—you chose good ones.”

She smiled. “Why thank you. It’s gratifying to know I’ve
performed well in what is usually a man’s domain.”

He shrugged. “Good enough for me, anyhow, but I don’t know
much about wine.”

“You know, I’m going to ignore that comment,” she replied in
a light voice, “and choose instead to believe that you are a regular
connoisseur.”

“O.K., then I’ll confess to a lie. I’m an A number one wine
expert.”

“My pride thanks you!”

“It’s welcome. So back to Romeo. Been studying on him, and
I’ll admit he worries me mightily.”

“Mightily?” she repeated, her stomach tightening. “Why, I’ll
own that this last act is rather . . . distressing but I think not so much as
‘mightily’.”

“Well you go and be distressed. Me, I’m mightily worried.
What troubles me most is that he’s gone from letter writing to destruction,
just out of the blue. Think maybe you did something to set him off?”

And with that anger—clear, cleansing anger—erupted and swept
away her fear. “
Do something
?” she snapped. “This is my fault, then?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, coolly as if she hadn’t just blasted
him with the hot wind of her temper. “You’re the victim, that’s plain enough.”
He took a bite of fish and his face glowed for a spell as he reveled in
culinary ecstasy. “Man alive, but this is good. You know how to order French
food, ma’am, and that’s a fact.”

She would
not
allow flattery to quiet her wrath.
Especially since that wrath was all that held panic at bay. “You implied that I
did something to cause this. I have
not
. Why, would you be so kind as to
tell me, why do men always blame women for an assault upon her person when in
all other matters he demands control? When it comes to sexual matters men claim
to be constitutionally unable to resist a pretty face, and thus relinquishes
all responsibility for an assault. Only in cases of rape do men assign women
power, which is most certainly one of the areas that we cannot possibly be
equal, lacking physical strength as we are. It is infuriating!” she spat out.

His eyes narrowed as he finished his fish. He sat back. “I
didn’t say that. I don’t think that. And this isn’t rape.”

“And yet you’ve blamed me in the same manner, which is
beyond comprehension since I have no notion who this man is. How could I
possibly ‘ask for’ him to sneak into my trunk and—” She stopped, realizing that
she’d raised her voice, drawing the attention of the occupants of the nearest
table. Clenching her teeth, she finished in a lower voice, “Do
that
.”

He twirled his wine glass, his countenance calm and unlined
as he studied her with deeply penetrating eyes. “Not intentionally, sure,” he
said in measured tones. “But that makes it worse. This is a physical threat and
we have no notion of what triggered it—” He paused as if struggling for the
right words. “You’re wrong, I don’t blame you, but maybe you’d do best to lie
low for a while. Cancel your speech tomorrow, at least.”

She started. He wanted her to quit? The thought pulled at her
neck and shoulders and formed a lump in her throat. She’d believed that, like
her father and brother, Nicholas understood.

But how could he when she’d not told him? She had not, in
fact, talked to anyone about Minnie outside of her family and Ambrose. Years
later the memory still had the power to sear her heart and scrape her nerves
raw—pain and weakness she wished to expose to no one.

“I will not succumb to bullying.” She took a sip of wine.
Tangy and light, it coated her tongue, then her throat and stomach, where it
calmed the churning.

He frowned. “This is beyond bullying. He’s destroyed your
clothes. He might go after
you
next.”

With a pair of sheers? A shiver coursed over her nerves and
made her stomach jump. “He won’t. He loves me,” she said as much to convince
herself as to convince Nicholas.

“A man who honestly loves you would never frighten you.”

“He did it ‘for my own good.’ He’ll stop when he fully
comprehends the hopelessness of his quest.”

Nicholas stared hard at her, deep lines forming around his
eyes. “I’m not sure about that. Listen, I reckon you’re an ace of a speaker—”

“I’m not. I only agreed to do the speech because of the
honor of being chosen.”

Before Nicholas could respond, the waiter appeared with
their entrée and a bottle of hearty burgundy. A few minutes later, the wine was
poured and the empty plates cleared. Star cut into her steak.

“That man,” Nicholas growled as he started to eat, “has the
worst way of interrupting.”

She swallowed a bite. “It’s his job. Try those potatoes.
They aren’t quite as good as Delmonico’s famous recipe, but fairly close. Which
reminds me, while we are in Newport we must arrange for a visit to New York. I
suspect Melinda would be exceedingly disappointed if you didn’t dine at
Delmonico’s at least once.”