Roderick Gideon Tremayne,

the recently appointed Duke of Wentworth, never expected to find himself in New York City, tracking down a mysterious map important to his late mother. And he certainly never expected to be injured, only to wake up with no memory of who he is. But when he sees the fiery-haired beauty who’s taken it upon herself to rescue him, suddenly his memory is the last thing on his mind.

Georgia Milton,

the young head of New York’s notorious Forty Thieves, feels responsible for the man who was trying to save her bag from a thief. But she’s not prepared for the fierce passion he ignites within her. When his memory begins to return, her whole world is threatened, and Roderick must choose between the life he forgot and the life he never knew existed.…

Dear Reader,

I love New York City. The people are damn serious about the way they live life. They work hard and play hard and needless to say, it got me thinking. Were the people of New York City just as hard-core back in 1830 as they are now? You better believe they were. And those poor bastards didn’t have our modern conveniences, either. Back in 1830, people were trying to pave dirt streets with gold, even though they had nothing but sweat. So what happens when an American-Irish woman named Georgia with only coal clutched in each hand meets a British aristocrat who only ever had gold? You get a story known as the Prince and the Pauperette. But why stop there? After all, there is so much more to a story than poor vs. rich. I wanted to get down and dirty and twisted, digging into the real facets of life back in 1830, while giving you a good laugh and a good cry. As a writer, I get to play god (bwahahaha) and the idea of a person starting over against their will has always fascinated me. So I took away the hero’s memory and made him crawl back to the basics in life. Basics he forgot to appreciate. Basics he never thought he’d be able to return to. And he does it all while touching the life of one very special woman who makes him realize true love is not only real but priceless. I hope you enjoy my historical version of the Prince and the Pauper.

Much love,

Delilah Marvelle

Forever and a Day

Delilah Marvelle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my former editor Tracy Martin. I’m going to miss you, Tracy, but hey, there are people out there who need you far more than I do. May all of your dreams come true.

Thank you to the entire Harlequin and HQN team. Marketing: Without you, no one would know about me. Scary. Art Department: Can I marry you for giving me such glorious covers? Keep it coming. Tara Parsons: Girl, you work way too many hours but boy am I ever glad you do. Thank you. Emily Ohanjanians (my new editor!): I’m looking forward to getting my butt kicked in. Bring it.

Thank you to Donald Maass, my agent and writing mentor, who brings clarity into my writing and my career every time.

Thank you to Jessa Slade, author extraordinaire, who not only gives me incredible feedback but calls me out on every demon that shouldn’t be there. Thank you to Maire Creegan, who is about to rip up the historical romance genre Brontë style, and who also knows how to rip up my historical romance Brontë style. London, baby. London.

Thank you to the New York City Library for not giving me weird looks as I tirelessly researched and asked endless, stupid questions both in person and via email. You and all of your amazing resources and archives gave this New York City series depth. Thank you.

To my husband, Marc.

You gave up your dream for mine.

That is why this book is for you.

I love you, Fire Boy. Engine 28 is waiting.

Contents

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PART THREE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

To endeavor to forget anyone is a certain

way of thinking of nothing else.

—Jean de La Bruyère, Les Caractères (1688)

6th of July, 1830, early afternoon

New York City

GEORGIA EMILY MILTON rarely cared to notice any of the well-to-do men strutting about Broadway as it was a long-standing rule of hers to never yearn for anything she couldn’t have and/or didn’t need. But as she bustled down the crowded, respectable stretch of Broadway, heading back toward the not-so-respectable trenches of Little Water, an astonishingly tall, well-groomed gentleman strode toward her at a leisurely pace, making her not only slow but inwardly wish she had been born a lady.

Weaving past others to ensure a better view, she caught staggered glimpses of an impressive, muscled frame garbed in a gray morning coat, well-fitted trousers and an embroidered waistcoat with double-row buttons. Gloved hands strategically angled his dove-gray top hat forward and down to better shade his eyes against the bright sun gleaming across the surrounding stretch of shop windows.

His hat alone had to be worth two months of her wages.

As he smoothly rounded several people and strode toward her side of the pavement, his smoldering gray eyes caught and held hers from beneath the rim of his hat. The pulsing intensity of that raw, heated gaze bashed the breath out of her.

Tightening his jaw, he aligned himself directly in her path, the expanse between them lessening with each frantic beat of her heart. That black-leather-booted stride slowed when he finally came upon her. He formally— albeit a bit too gravely—inclined his dark head toward her, publicly acknowledging her in a way his sort never did during the day.

He behaved as if he didn’t see a rag in calico skirts, which had washed itself over from Orange Street, but an elegant young lady strolling alongside her mother with a lace parasol in hand. For making her feel so uncommonly attractive, Georgia considered blowing him a kiss. Fortunately, she knew how to keep herself out of trouble.

Glancing away, she set her chin as any respectable woman would, and sashayed past his towering frame, purposefully letting her own arm brush against his, only to stumble against the dragging skirts of a washerwoman who had rudely darted before her. Of all the—

His large hand jumped out and grabbed hold of her corseted waist, balancing her upright with a swift jerk. Georgia froze as her reticule swung against her wrist, hitting the sleeved coat of his solid forearm that held her in place.

Her heart slid off into oblivion upon realizing her bum now dug against a solid, male thigh. His solid, male thigh.

His head dipped toward her from behind, his muscles tensing as he pressed her backside more possessively against his front side. His arm tightened around her waist. “Are you all right, madam?”

His voice was husky and refined, laced with a regal British accent that made the Irish girl in her inwardly put up both fists.

“That I am, sir. Thank you.” Trying to shake off the intimacy of that hold, Georgia tried to politely ease away.

He released her, his hand skimming from her waist toward the expanse of her back, making the skin beneath her clothing zing.

Her eyes widened as that same hand curved its way back up her side, intent on outlining the rest of her body.

Though she tried to peddle away, he tightened his hold on her upper arm and drew her back firmly toward himself. “Madam.”

Sucking in a breath, she jerked away and shoved him back hard, causing him to stumble. “Don’t you be gropin’ me!”

“Your bonnet.” He held up both of his hands in a quick truce and gestured toward it. “One of the ribbons came loose. That is all.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks bloomed with heat as she reached up and patted around the curve of her bonnet trying to find it. How utterly humiliating. “I’m ever so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to actually—”

“No worries. Allow me.” Setting a large hand against the small of her back, he guided her with forceful nudges over to the shop window beyond, removing them from the pathway of hustling pedestrians.

Realizing that he intended to affix the ribbon himself, she glanced up wide-eyed. “There’s really no need for you to—”

“Yes, there is. You will lose the ribbon otherwise. Now, please. Hold still.” He angled her toward himself and leaned in close, lifting the discolored, frayed ribbon dangling off the side of her bonnet.

Georgia awkwardly lingered before him as he wove the length of the ribbon back into place. Although she wanted to dash away, knowing that her bonnet was an atrocity not worth touching, sometimes a girl needed to gaze up at the stars that so willingly sought to shine. Even if those stars were far beyond the reach of a penniless girl’s imagination.

As his fingers skimmed her bonnet and tucked the ribbon, she resisted reaching up and grazing her hand adoringly against that smooth, shaven face. What, oh, what would it be like to belong to a man such as this?

Glimpsing a single black band fitted around the shifting gray coat of his bulking upper biceps, she glanced back up at him, her heart squeezing. He was in mourning.

“’Tis almost affixed,” he offered conversationally, his eyes scanning her bonnet. He leaned in closer. “I’m using one of the other pins to keep it in place.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, lowering her gaze.

His coat smelled like mulled spice and cedar. It was divinely warm and inviting, even on a summer’s day. The double row of buttons on his embroidered waistcoat shifted against the expanse of his broad chest as he finished maneuvering the last of her ribbon into place. She could tell by the reflective metal gleam of those buttons that they weren’t painted brass made to emulate silver, but were, in fact, real silver. Only an elite group of men in New York could afford silver buttons. It was an elite group she knew she’d never be able to touch, not even with an outstretched toe.

“There we are.” Meeting her gaze, he drew his gloved hands away and offered in a low baritone, “And how are you today, madam?”

Blinking up at him, she noted the way his eyes and his brow had softened, lending to a boyish vulnerability that didn’t match his imposing height of more than six feet. She tried to quell the anxious tingle knotting her stomach. Despite the full bustle on Broadway, this glorious man sought to share in a bit of conversation with her. “I’m very well, sir. Thank you.”

She refrained from asking how he was out of respect for the band around his arm, and instead offered a flirtatious smile, gesturing toward the pleated rim of her bonnet. “Rather impressive. Have you considered takin’ up haberdashery?”

He slowly grinned, the edges of those handsome gray eyes and that firm full mouth crinkling, brightening his overly serious appearance. “No. I haven’t.”

Of course he hadn’t. He had silver buttons. He probably owned every haberdashery in town. Or in the town from whence he came.

He shifted toward her, his large frame blocking whatever view she had of the street. “Are you from around these parts?”

She refrained from snorting. “You’re overly kind, to be sure, but given that my bonnet can’t even hold a ribbon, most certainly not. Only gold-feathered peacocks can afford these parts, sir. I’m merely passin’ through.”

“Gold-feathered peacocks?” He smirked and set his hands behind his back, broadening his impressive shoulders. “Is that what you like to call those of wealth?”

She scrunched her nose playfully. “Nah, not really. I’m bein’ polite, seein’ that you’re one of them, and I’ve roughed you up well enough.”

A gruff laugh escaped his lips. “Rest assured, I am quite used to it,” he remarked, still intimately holding her gaze. “I’ve already endured more than my share of elbowing from the public given that I’m British. Too many Americans still remember the burning of Washington, but I swear to you I didn’t do it.”

Georgia burst into laughter, smitten with his marvelously wry humor. “Ah, now, can you readily blame them? You Brits are nothin’ but gadflies cloaked in a fancy accent.”

He paused and leaned in, heatedly searching her face without any further attempt to mask his unabashed interest. “Might I cease being polite for one brief moment and ask whether you would like to join me for coffee over at my hotel? It’s been quite some time since I have allowed myself a moment of leisure. Honor me.”

The wistful intensity lingering within that taut face was so galvanizing, it sent a tremor through her body. Though tempted to glimpse how the other half lived over the rim of a porcelain cup, she knew better than to involve herself with a man who wore silver buttons. It would never last beyond the toss of her skirts and a single night.

She eyed the people weaving past. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, given that you’ve been nothin’ but kind, but I really ought to go. I’ve a long day ahead of me.” She gestured toward the pavement as if that explained everything.

His hopeful expression melted to disappointment. “I understand and will detain you no more.” He inclined his head, touching the tips of his gloved fingers to the satin rim of his hat. “I bid you a very good day, madam.”

By all that was blue, his manners were as divine as the rest of him. “And a very good day to you, as well, sir. I appreciate the unexpected service you rendered my bonnet.”

His mouth quirked. “It was an honor to be of service. Good day.” Stepping back, he eased his large frame around a passing couple. Glancing back at her one last time, he smiled and disappeared into the surrounding wall of bodies.

Georgia eased out a wistful breath knowing she had just glimpsed life as it might have been had she been born a genteel lady of high society. Ah, money. If only it could also buy a woman true love and happiness, she would be the first to dash into the local bank and point a pistol at every clerk, demanding tens and twenties.

Swiveling toward the opposite direction, Georgia resumed her steady march home, which was still a good forty-minute walk. Why couldn’t such refined gentlemen exist in her part of town? It wasn’t in the least bit fair that her only selection of men smacked the bottoms of passing women and whistled through crooked, unchalked teeth. Not for long, though. She was only six dollars short of moving west and couldn’t wait to climb into that stagecoach and leave her piss of a life behind.

A towering, broad frame suddenly appeared beside her and veered in, startling her. “Madam.”

Her eyes widened. Upon her soul, it was her Brit. Slowing her step, she offered a quick, “Yes?”

He swung toward her, trotting backward in an effort to face her before jumping into her path and coming to an abrupt halt.

Georgia squeaked and skid to prevent herself from dashing herself against him.

He leaned toward her. “I can only apologize for being so uncommonly bold, but I must have your name.”

She glanced up in astonishment. “And what do you intend to do with my name, sir?”

He lifted a dark brow. “Perhaps you and I can discuss that over coffee? Couldn’t you make time for one small cup? Just one? My nickel.”

What was he thinking? Did she really look the sort? “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I don’t drink coffee. Or men. I’m swearin’ off both until I move west.”

His eyes darkened. “I am not asking you to drink me.”

Despite the warmth of the day, another shiver of awareness grazed the length of her body, knowing full well what the man meant. “Not yet you aren’t, but you’re invitin’ me to join you for coffee at your hotel. I may be third-generation Irish, but that doesn’t make me stupid.”

He lowered his chin. “Coffee was merely a suggestion.”

“Oh, I know full well what you’re suggestin’, and I suggest you leave off. Do I look desperate for a toss or coffee?”

A smile ruffled his lips. “Have mercy upon a smitten man. What is your name?”

It was times like these that she hated her life. Such an attractive man graced with wealth and status would only ever view her as a one-night commodity. Although she knew better than to want more for herself, given that she was nothing but a Five Points widow, her dear Raymond had taught her she had a right to want the universe, and by God, she was going to get it.

There was only one way to go about protecting what little honor she had. She’d give him the name of the best prostitute in the ward. That way, everyone would benefit from her cleverness should he decide to hunt the name down. “The name is Mrs. Elizabeth Heyer, sir. Emphasis on the Mrs. Sorry I can’t join you. My husband wouldn’t be pleased.” She quickly rounded him. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

He stepped before her, blocking her from moving any farther. “I ask that you provide your real name.”

“I just did.”

He shook his head from side to side, never once breaking their gaze. “It took a few breaths too long for you to answer and you didn’t even look at me when you said it. Why? Do I unnerve you?”

She glared up at him. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m tryin’ to take my leave.”

“If you were married, you would have mentioned it earlier.” He leveled her with a reprimanding stare. “Do you mean to say that you are the sort of woman who enjoys bantering with men whilst her husband isn’t about? Shame on you if that is true, and shame on you if it isn’t. Either way, the lady appears to be a liar.”

Curse him for honing in on the details.

He leaned in. “Don’t deny that you are blatantly flirting with me in the same manner I am blatantly flirting with you.”

Her eyes widened. She stepped back. “If I were flirtin’, you’d know it, because I’d be draggin’ you straight home instead of takin’ up coffee. I’m not one to play games, sir. I either do somethin’ or I don’t.”

“Then do something.” His jaw tightened, his expression stilling. “I’m not married. An afternoon of conversation is all I ask.” He met her gaze. “For now.”

The smooth but predatory way he said it caused her to instinctively step back. Regardless of the fact that she was no longer married, it was obvious the sanctity of matrimony meant nothing to him. “And what shall I tell my husband, sir, should he ask how I spent my afternoon?”

His eyes clung to hers as if methodically gauging her reaction. “If you are indeed married, I will not only desist, but run. I am not interested in creating a mess for you or myself. I was merely looking to get to know a woman who genuinely piqued my interest. Is that wrong?”

Georgia could feel her palms growing moist. Tempted though she was to experience one spine-tingling adventure of ripping off all the clothes of a most provocative stranger, she knew it wouldn’t end well if Matthew and the boys were to ever find out. They’d probably hunt him down and kill him. After they robbed him of everything he was worth, that is. It’d be a mess either way.

She glanced around, ensuring she didn’t see anyone she recognized. “Unlike you, sir, I’m lookin’ to marry. Not dance. A woman of little means, such as myself, needs a dependable relationship better known as forever and a day. Not your version of a day and a night. I think that about says it all. Good day.” Without meeting his gaze, she swept past.

He wordlessly angled away, allowing her passage.

Georgia quickened her step and scolded herself for having encouraged him in the first place. Fifteen decades on the rosary praying for her Jezebel soul ought to readmit her into heaven. Although fifteen decades wouldn’t even begin to include Matthew’s sins from this week alone that she had yet to pray for. That man required a set of his own damn beads. Not that he believed in God or anything else for that matter. All he believed in was money, money, money.

She paused on the pavement and instinctively tightened her hold on her reticule, allowing others to weave past. For some reason, she had this niggling feeling that she was being followed by the Brit she thought she’d left behind.

Pinching her lips together, she swiveled on her heel and froze upon glimpsing him four strides away, despite her having already forged well over a block. Her reticule slid from her calico-sleeved elbow down to her wrist, mirroring her disbelief that the man was following her like a dog she’d unknowingly fed scraps to. “Are you following me?”

Gray eyes heatedly captured hers as he came to a halt. “Instead of coffee, how about you and I go for a walk and get to know each other that way?” He smiled, ceremoniously announcing that he was capable of being respectable and that it was now up to her to decide as to how they should proceed.

Georgia dragged in a much-needed breath, her heart frantically pounding. Did he actually think she was going to change her mind based off that smoldering need blazing in those gunmetal eyes? She didn’t even have time for a tryst. Not with all the laundry she had yet to do.

A quick movement shadowed the corner of her eye as a youth darted in and yanked back her wrist with the violent tug of her own reticule. The glint of a blade whizzed past.

Her eyes widened as she jerked around, realizing that the strings on her reticule had been slit by a passing thief. “Ey!” Georgia pounced for it, trying to reclaim what was hers, but the lanky youth skid out of reach, shoving past people, and dashed out of sight.

Her heart popped realizing she’d just been robbed by a ten-year-old. Hiking up her skirts above her ankle boots, she sprinted after the damn whoreson, shoving herself through those around her. “You’d best run!” she shouted after the boy, trying to keep up. “Because I’m about to shuck you like an oyster!”

“I’ll anchor him,” the Brit called out from behind.

His broad frame sped past her, and dodged left, then right, then left again, disappearing into the bustle of Broadway.

Having lost sight of him and the boy, Georgia paused to frantically ask others if they had seen a youth being chased by a gent in a dove-gray hat. She was repeatedly pointed onward and downward. So onward and downward she went.

Dragging in breaths, she tried to keep up with the pace of her own booted feet as the jogging facade of Broadway shops tapered into pristine Italian row houses. If she didn’t get that damn reticule back, she’d have to dig money out of her box to make the rent. Again.

Shouts and a gathering crowd of men on the upcoming dirt road made her jerk to a halt and snap her gaze toward a pluming dust that was settling. An overturned dove-gray top hat lay oddly displaced outside the crowd in the middle of the street.

She sucked in a breath, scanning the men who were yelling at women to stand back. What—?

The driver of an omnibus, who had already brought his horses to a full halt, untied the calling rope from his ankled boot, hopped down from his box seat and hurried into the crowd as passengers within the omni craned and gaped through the small windows.

“Oh, God.” Her stomach clenched as she scrambled forward.

The Brit had been struck by the omni and was lying motionless there on the street corner of Howard and Broadway.

LIGHT EDGED IN THROUGH the waving darkness and pulsed against his eyelids. Slowly opening his eyes, he squinted against the glaring brightness of the sun that pierced through a cloudless sky. Taking in several jagged breaths, he drifted, unable to lift his head from the dirt-pounded street that dug into his shaven cheek and throbbing temple.

Several booted feet and countless hovering faces blocked his skewed view of painted placards posted on buildings and a blue sky that rose beyond a street he did not recognize. Shouts boomed all around him and the dust-ridden, heat-laced air made it difficult for him to breathe.

A bearded man with a cap slung low against his brow leaned over him. “Good to see you stayed below the clouds, sir. Are you able to get up?”

Why were there so many people gathered around him? What was going on? He rolled onto his back, wincing against the searing, razorlike sensations coiling throughout the length of his body. He staggered to sit up, only to sway and stumble back against the dirt road beneath him. The scuffed imprint of a booted foot that had been pressed deeply into the dirt beside him drew his gaze.

One day it happened that, going to my boat, I saw the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, very evident on the sand, as the toes, heels and every part of it.

He winced, pushing the odd, misplaced voice out of his head. His vision blurred as the acrid taste of blood coated his mouth and tongue. Something trickled down the side of his face, its wet warmth dribbling toward his earlobe. He swiped the moisture away with a trembling hand and glanced toward it. The fingertips of his brown leather glove were smeared with blood.

“Hoist him up,” a female voice insisted from within the blur of surrounding faces. There was a pause. “Oh, saints preserve us.” She sounded more panicked. “We need to get him over to the hospital.”

He swallowed and glanced up toward that lilting female voice that appeared concerned for him. Was he in some strange part of Ireland? Despite trying to find that voice, there only seemed to be an endless blur of male faces floating around him.

Hands slid beneath his morning coat and trouser-clad thighs. A group of men jerked him upward with a unified grunt.

Pain whizzed straight up to his clenched teeth and skull. He gasped, twisting against their pinching grasps. “Gentlemen,” he seethed out between ragged breaths. “Whilst your concern is appreciated, I hardly think a full procession is necessary.”

“Such posh manners for one who is dying,” one of the men carrying him hooted playfully. “One can only wonder what’ll come out of his mouth when he’s dead.”

A quick hand reached out and knocked the cap off the man’s head. “Less tongue, more muscle. Move!”

“Ey!” the man yelled back, stumbling against him and all the others carrying him. “Keep them mammet little hands to yourself, woman. I was only having a bit of fun.”

“You think it fun watchin’ a man bleed? Keep movin’ him, you lout. Lest I make you bleed.” The freckled face of a young woman with the brightest set of green eyes he’d ever seen suddenly peered in from between all of the broad shoulders carrying him. Her rusty arched brows came together as she trotted alongside him, trying to hold his gaze through moving limbs. A loose, soft-looking strand of strawberry-red hair swayed against the wind, having tumbled out of her frayed blue bonnet.

“Where are you stayin’?” She shoved the loose strand of hair back into her bonnet with a bare hand, trying to keep up with the men carrying him. “Close? Far?”

Gritting his teeth, he tried to focus, but couldn’t.

“Are you from around here?” she insisted, still bustling alongside him. “Or are you visitin’ from abroad? You mentioned a hotel. Which hotel are you stayin’ at?”

“Hotel?” he echoed up at her, his throat tightening. “When did I mention a hotel?”

She squinted down at him, searching his face. “Never you mind that. We need to contact your family. Give me a name and address, and after we deliver you to the hospital, I’ll run myself over to them at once.”

Family? He blinked, glancing up at the swaying, hazy blue sky above as he was guided up toward a hackney. Countless names and faces flipped through his mind’s eye like the pages of an endless book whipping past. There were so many names. Strada. Ludovicus. Casparus. Bruyère. Horace. Sloane. Lovelace. Shakespeare. Fielding. Pilkington. La Croix. They couldn’t all be related to him. Or…could they?

I was called Robinson Kreutznaer, which not being easily pronounced in the English tongue, we are commonly known by the name of Crusoe.

Wait. Crusoe. Yes. It was a name he remembered very well. Robinson Crusoe of York. Was that not him? It had to be, and yet he couldn’t remember if it was or it wasn’t. Oh, God. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he remember what was what?

He winced, realizing that he was now being tucked against the leather seat of an enclosed hackney. The firm hands that had been pushing him to sit upright against the seat left his body one by one as all the men turned away and jumped down and out of the hackney, leaving him alone against the seat.

Everything swayed as he slumped against the weight of his heavy limbs. He panicked, unable to control his own body, and fought to remain upright by using his gloved hands against the sides of the hackney.

The woman with the green eyes shoved her way past the others and frantically climbed up into the hackney, slamming the door behind her. “I’m takin’ you in myself. I’ll not leave your side. I promise.”

The vehicle rolled forward as she landed beside him on the seat with a bounce. She leaned toward him. “Come.” Her arms slid around him as she dragged him gently toward herself. She guided his shoulder and head down onto her lap, scooting across the seat to better accommodate his size.

He collapsed against the warmth of her lap, thankful he didn’t have to hold himself up anymore. Wrapping a trembling hand around her knee, he buried it into the folds of her gown, taking comfort that he wasn’t alone. The scent of lye and soap drifted up from the softness of her gown, which grazed his cheek and throbbing temple. He could die here and know eternal peace.

Her hand rubbed his shoulder. “I want you to talk. That way, I’ll know you’re doin’ all right. So go on. Talk.”

He swallowed, wanting to thank her for her compassion and for giving him a breath of hope even though he sensed there was none. Was death nothing more than a long sleep? His hand slowly and heavily slid inch by inch from her knee as he felt his entire world tip.

“Sir?” She leaned down toward him and shook him. “Sir?”

A snowy, rippling haze overtook the last of his vision, and though he fought to stay awake in those heavenly arms, everything faded and he along with it.

CHAPTER TWO

The height of cleverness is to be able to conceal it.

—François de La Rochefoucauld,

Maximes Morales (1678)

Nine days later, early evening

New York Hospital

GEORGIA LET OUT AN EXASPERATED breath and adjusted her bonnet, setting both ankled boots up onto the wicker chair opposite the one she’d been sitting in for the past ten minutes. She leaned forward and shook the bundled length of her brown calico gown to allow cooler air to relieve the heat of the room that would not dissipate.

Falling back into the wicker chair again, she glanced impatiently toward the surgeon who appeared to be far more invested in his desk than in her. “How much longer, sir? I’ve yet to cross back into town before they cease all rides and I really have no desire to walk over fifteen blocks in the dark.”

Dr. Carter casually reached out and gripped the porcelain cup beside him. Lifting the rim to his mustached lip, he took a long swallow of murky coffee, before setting it back onto the saucer beside him with a clink. He leaned over the sizable ledger on his desk and scribed something. “His condition remains the same, Miss Milton. As such, you may go.”

She glared at him. “’Tis Mrs. Milton ’til another man comes along to change it, and I didn’t pay a whole twelve and a half cents for the omni to hear that. Last week you claimed he was fully recovered. I expected him to be gone by now. Why is he still here?”

The tip of his quill kept scratching against the parchment. “Because, Mrs. Milton, I am still conflicted as to how I should proceed.” Wrinkling his brow, he paused and reached toward the inkwell with a poised quill. “His mental state isn’t what it should be. I haven’t disclosed his condition to anyone outside a trusted few out of fear he could be tossed into an asylum.”

Her lips parted. “An asylum? Why would anyone—”

“Since he regained consciousness nine days ago, Mrs. Milton, he has been unable to provide me with a name or any details pertaining to his life. I even had to reacquaint him with the most basic of care, including how he was to shave and knot his own cravat.”

She dropped her legs from the chair and sat up, her heart pounding. “Dearest God. What do you plan to do? What can you do?”

He shrugged. “I intend to dismiss him within the week. He doesn’t belong here any more than he does in an asylum.”

Her eyes widened. “And what of his family, sir? We have to find a way to contact them before you let him wander off. What if he should disappear and they never hear from him again?”

He stared at her, edging back his hand from over the inkwell. “If he hasn’t the means to remember them, I haven’t the means to find them. Do you understand? There is nothing more that I can physically do for him.”

“There is plenty more you can physically do for him!”

“Such as?” His tone was of pained tolerance.

“You can contact the British Consulate about whether or not they’re missin’ a citizen.”

“I have already done that. No one is missing.”

Damn. “Well…isn’t there a way to bring in an artist and acquire a sketch of his face?”

“That has already been done. I mandate profile sketches of all my patients. It allows for extended funding from the government.”

“Good. We’ll be able to make use of it and submit his sketch to every newspaper and hotel across town. Someone is bound to know who he is, given he appears to be of the upper circles. Though I recommend no reward. That would only attract imposters.”

Dr. Carter tossed his quill aside and leaned into the desk, scrunching his gray pin-striped waistcoat and his overcoat in the process. “This is a hospital, Mrs. Milton. Not an investigative branch of the United States government. You clearly have no understanding as to how these things work.”

How typical that she’d be treated like some stupid, scampering rat darting through the legs of society. She managed to refrain from jumping up and smacking him for it. “Last I knew, sir, and correct me if I’m wrong, but the New York Hospital is funded by a contributin’ branch of the United States government. As such, you have an obligation to oversee the well-bein’ of every citizen that passes through these doors, be that citizen a Brit or not. Have the laws somehow changed? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?”

He sighed. “The funding I receive from the government is very limited. It doesn’t provide for these sorts of things.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everythin’ involvin’ our government is very limited. They only give the people just enough to prevent revolution whilst robbin’ every last one of us blind. In my opinion, these politicians ought to be boiled in their own whiskey. They don’t give a spit about anythin’ but their own agenda.”

A tap resounded against the door of the small office.

“Yes?” he called out, lifting his chin toward its direction. “What is it?”

The door swung open and a balding man hurried in, bare hands adjusting a blood-spattered, yellowing apron that had been carelessly tied across his waistcoat and trousers. “Bed sixteen is shaving, despite orders that he remain in bed. He insists on yet another bath and intends to depart within the hour. What am I to do?”

Dr. Carter blew out a breath. “There is nothing we can do. If he insists on departing, I cannot physically hold him. Send him into my office. I’ll ensure he pays the bill and will direct him to one of the local boardinghouses.”

“Yes, Dr. Carter.” The man jogged back out.

Bed sixteen? That was the Brit’s bed. Georgia’s wicker chair screeched against the floorboards as she jumped onto booted feet. “You intend on lettin’ him walk out into the night despite his condition? And plan on layin’ him with a bill, too?” She pointed at him, wishing she had it in her to grab his head and pound it into his own desk. “A thug is what you are. A bedeviled, government-funded thug who ought to be—”

“Mrs. Milton, please. I haven’t the time for this.”

“You’d best make the time, Dr. Carter, as it only involves the poor man’s life. Directin’ him to a local boardin’house is like tellin’ a fox to take up residence with the hounds. At the very least, you ought to turn him over to the state.”

He rubbed his temple. “Mrs. Milton.” He dropped his hand to his side and sat back against his leather chair. “The man is far too old to become a ward of any state.” He swept a grudging hand toward the open window beside him that mirrored a quiet, moonless night. “Given his size and level of intelligence, I doubt he’ll run into any trouble.”

The bastard didn’t even care that the minute that Brit put his polished boots on the wrong street, he’d be dead. She marched toward him, halting before his desk. “Whilst I know the world is full of woes we can’t mend, we sure as hell ought to try. I want you to board him.”

He blinked. “What? Here?”

“No, you dunce. In your home. What better way to care for your patient than givin’ him a room next to your own?”

Dr. Carter threw back his head and puffed out a breath. After staring up at the ceiling for a long moment, he leveled his head and confided in a very impersonal tone, “I cannot take him home with me. My wife would throw a fit if I commenced bringing home all of my patients.”

“Better your wife than me.”

He pointed at her. “I’m asking you to leave before I have you tossed on your goddamn nose. I’ve had enough of this.” He swept a finger to the door. “Get out.”

It was obvious this man wasn’t taking her seriously. Setting both hands atop his piled ledgers, she leaned across the desk toward him and lowered her voice a whole octave to better deliver her threat. “Before you go about tossin’ me out on my nose, Dr. Carter, I want you to think about whether or not your life means anythin’ to you.”

He rose to his feet, towering above her. The broad planes of his aging face tightened as he leaned toward her across the desk. “Are you threatening me?” he rasped, placing both of his hands parallel to her own.

“Nah. ’Tis just a question like…between friends, don’t you see.” Georgia narrowed her gaze to match his. “But supposin’ the Forty Thieves, who provide me with whatever protection I require, were to hear of my distress? What then? I’d be thinkin’ it’d be in your best interest to help this man along. Because if you don’t, I’d reckon that the quality of your life will diminish to the point that the Holy Virgin wouldn’t even be able to help you.”

His eyes held hers, his rigid brow flickering with renewed uncertainty. “I am a servant of the state. No rabble has power or say over me.”

Georgia continued to stare him down. “Toss me on my nose and count all of the men who will show up at your door. I dare you. Go on. Toss me.”

Dr. Carter edged back and away, slowly removing his hands from the desk. Swiping a trembling hand across his face, he sat and shifted in his seat, refusing to look at her. “Might I ask why you are so intent on assisting him? Is he a customer who never fully disclosed his name and owes you money? Is that what this is about?”

Georgia lowered her chin, her pulse roaring in her ears. “How dare you? I sell hot corn on the hour of every summer and scrub clothes for priests in three wards, barely makin’ half of what you eat in an effort to stay respectable.” She snapped a finger toward the open door. “I don’t know who the hell that man is any more than you do! Cursed that I am, I feel guilt for what happened to him. He was hit runnin’ after my reticule. I may not be fobbin’ high society, sir, but how does showin’ an ounce of concern for a man make me a whore?”

Dr. Carter fell back against the chair and sighed. “I simply wanted to know what I was attaching my name to.”

“Well, now you know. I do laundry. Not men.”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you for more than clarifying that.”

“I still don’t understand a spit of any of this. How does a man forget his own name and life?”

Running the tips of his fingers against his mustache, he eyed her. “I’ve actually read about a condition similar to his known as ‘memory loss’ in one of my medical journals. It involved a soldier who was rendered blank after a severe blow to the head during the war. I myself never thought it medically possible, but it’s obvious this man’s memory is for the most part gone. I wanted you to be aware of that given your concern.”

She swallowed, bringing her shaky hands together. This was her fault. She should have never looked at him that day. Perhaps things might have been different. Perhaps he’d still have had a mind. “Don’t you know anythin’ about him? Anythin’ at all?”

“A few things, yes. ’Tis obvious by the clothing he arrived in, his speech and mannerisms, as well as the money that was found on his person, that he appears to be of British affluence.”

She huffed out a breath. “I already knew that. His buttons were made out of silver, sir. Not even bankers can afford silver buttons.”

“Then you know about as much about the man as I do, Mrs. Milton.” He held up a hand, shifting in his seat. “Threats aside, I will agree that assisting him is the right thing to do, but my time is very limited, so I am going to ask for your assistance, in turn. I work as many as twelve hours a day and my wife and six children barely see me. What little time I do have, I spend with them and hope to God you’ll not impose on what I consider to be incredibly precious.”

Georgia blinked, her throat tightening. Now she felt like a bloke of the worst sort, having bullied a family man. “I didn’t mean to toss threats, but I learned a long time ago that generosity and compassion have to be threatened out of people.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. “You are far more impressive in nature than you let on.”

She set her chin. “The frayed gown has a tendency to mislead people into thinkin’ I’m as equally frayed. Now let’s get on with this. What will you have me do? I’ll see to it if it means helpin’ him. That’s all I really care about.”

He sighed. “Find a means to board him until he is claimed.”

She lifted a brow. He wanted her to board him? Impossible. There was only one bed in her low closet and it belonged to her. Even if she did manage to get past sharing it with a man she didn’t know, he’d only end up leeching resources she barely had. “Bein’ a respectable widow, sir, I’ve neither the money nor the means.”

Dr. Carter leaned over and yanked open one of the drawers on the desk, scooping up a stringed, small leather satchel. “I retrieved everything from his pockets when he first arrived to prevent anything from being stolen. The patients here aren’t particularly trustworthy.” He tapped it. “Inside, you’ll find a fob and a pocketbook containing one hundred and thirty-two dollars. It should be more than enough to oversee all of his expenses. I’ll even waive the hospital fee if you promise to board him for however long it takes to locate his family.”

Georgia gawked at the lopsided satchel. “One hundred and thirty-two dollars? Away with you. Who wanders about the city with that much money in one pocket?”

He smirked. “A pirate, I suppose.” He paused and shifted awkwardly in his seat. “I should probably disclose that he claims to be a Salé pirate.”

She gasped. “Whatever do you mean he claims to be?”

He cleared his throat. “If you intend to board him, which I hope you will, I highly recommend you not exasperate his situation. He isn’t in the least bit dangerous, but riling him into questioning his own sanity will only result in pointless paranoia. If he says he is a Salé pirate, he is. Do you understand?”

Heaven preserve her soul. What was she getting herself into? Whilst, yes, she wanted to help, and the man seemed infinitely divine on the street, she didn’t know who this Brit was or what he was capable of. What if he’d already been deranged prior to being clipped by the omni and his so-called “memory loss” was, in fact, who he really was?

“Abide by calling him Robinson Crusoe,” he continued. “He prefers it.”

She blinked. “I thought you had said he didn’t know his name.”

“He doesn’t. He thinks Robinson Crusoe is his name.”

She squinted, not understanding his point. “Beggin’ your pardon, but Robinson Crusoe sounds like a very legitimate name to me.”

He blinked rapidly. “You obviously haven’t read the book.”

Now he really wasn’t making any sense. “What book?”

Dr. Carter leaned toward her, awkwardly refusing to meet her gaze. “Mrs. Milton.”

“Yes?”

“Robinson Crusoe is the name of a character from a book. ’Tis a story decades old and well-known amongst boys and men alike. The main character is a sailor whose ship is overtaken by Salé pirates who force him into becoming a slave. He manages to escape, only to be shipwrecked on an island frequented by cannibals. So you see…our Salé slave and pirate thinks he is this character. He thinks he is Robinson Crusoe.”

Her eyed widened. “That doesn’t sound like memory loss to me. He sounds…deranged.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. But he isn’t.” He shifted toward her. “In trying to understand his most unusual condition, I presented him a map of the world and asked him where we were and where he lived. Imagine my astonishment when he points to France and mentions rue des Francs-Bourgeois in Paris. ’Tis a street I know very well, given my wife’s parents had lived on that same street prior to the Revolution that pushed them out. ’Tis still an impressive area frequented by those of affluence and one Robinson Crusoe would have never frequented. I have written to his address to inquire, but without a name or house number, it may lead nowhere.

“So you see, he may not remember who he is, but he still remembers factual things outside of this Crusoe. Factual things that must pertain to his own life. I have therefore concluded that his condition isn’t one of full-blown fantasy but an inability to decipher between fact and fiction. That doesn’t make him deranged. It only makes him…unreliable. Something to keep in mind whilst you board him.” He plucked up a piece of stationery from his cluttered desk, along with an ink-slathered quill. “I will require your name and address before you depart with him.”

She angled toward him. “Don’t you think that a man who claims to have met cannibals is a walkin’ liability I ought to avoid? Regardless of if he knows life outside of this—this Crusoe? What if he should eat me and all of my neighbors in honor of his cannibal friends? What then, sir?”

Dr. Carter burst into laughter and caught himself against the desk, eyeing her. “He won’t—” He laughed again, shaking his head. “No. He won’t. Not this man.”

She set her hands on her hips. “I’m bein’ quite serious and I wish to Joseph you’d be, too. I’ve seen far too much to question what is or isn’t rational. Men are never rational, sir. They only pretend to be and I’m rather worried I may end up swimmin’ in my own blood.”

His features sagged. “I cannot predict what he will or will not do, but the man is genuinely compassionate and protective of others. Throughout his entire stay, he’s done nothing but lecture us on our inability to tend to patients and is always getting out of bed to assist others in the hall, despite having orders that he rest. If that assurance isn’t enough, I suggest you let him walk out into the world, Mrs. Milton. For he is neither your responsibility nor mine. So what will you have me do? The choice is yours.”

Oh, now, that just wasn’t fair. She sighed. “I’ll find a means to board him,” she grouched, waving toward the parchment. “The name is Mrs. Georgia Emily Milton and the tenement is 28 Orange Street. Orange. Like the bastard who destroyed Ireland.”

Dr. Carter paused, leaned over the parchment and sloppily scribed her name and address. “Thank you.”

This was going to be a mess. She’d probably have to hover over this Brit like a hen over a cracked egg. But then again, if there was anyone who understood cracked, it most certainly was her. “About how long will I have to board him? Exactly?”

“That I cannot say. It could be a few days or several months, depending on how long it takes for someone to recognize him.”

She refrained from groaning. Though she hated submitting to guilt, for it was a pesky emotion that always got her into trouble, she owed the man this much, given it was her reticule that had sent him under an omni.

Dr. Carter set aside the quill, swiped up the satchel and held it out. “I will leave this in your care and will be in touch. Make the money last. We don’t know how long it will be before anyone claims him.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll ensure both he and it lasts.” She reached out and tugged the small, weighty satchel from his hand. Why did she have this eerie feeling that she was taking on a man who was about to do far more than ruin her month?

CHAPTER THREE

She Ventures, and He Wins.

—A Comedy Written by a Young Lady (1696)

A MAN OBNOXIOUSLY CLEARED his throat from behind Georgia where she still lingered before Dr. Carter’s desk. “I realize the hour is anything but convenient, Dr. Carter, but I’m asking to depart all the same before I lead a revolt in the hall. None of the goddamn linens in our beds have been tended to in over three days. For those men who have fluids pouring out from more than the usual places, I find it vile and disturbing. You and your minions ought to be hanged for your wretched disregard for humanity. Hanged.”

The harsh British voice startled Georgia into turning to the man. She instinctively pressed the small satchel in her hand against her hip, her eyes jumping from a broad chest up to a taut, masculine face. The man didn’t sound quite as mindless as Dr. Carter had led her to believe.

The Brit, who lingered all but a stride away, glanced down at her and paused. His black hair had been brushed back from his forehead with tonic, giving him the appearance of the distinguished gentleman she had met on the street, but that sizable scab and the large yellowing bruise marring the right side of his cheekbone and square jaw made him look like one of the boys. Dried blood from the day of the accident still spattered parts of his knotted cravat and full sections of his outer gray coat near the width of his broad shoulder.

Merciful God. They had never even washed his clothes. The rest of him appeared to be well scrubbed, though she sensed it was not anything the hospital had bothered with, but something he had insisted on.

Shifting toward her, he searched her face and drew in a ragged breath. “I know you.”

She smiled awkwardly. “Aye. That you do.”

He half nodded. “Yes.” His shaven face flushed. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize anyone would be coming.” Stepping toward her, he reached out and swept up her hand, making her almost drop the satchel that was still pressed in the other one.

Her heart flipped at the base of her throat as he bent over to softly kiss her bare hand.

No one but her Raymond had ever kissed her hand like that. It was the signature of a gentleman who could see beyond the rags. Georgia swallowed against the tightness of her throat and tried to tug her hand loose only to find that the man wouldn’t let go. “Might I…have my hand back? Or do you plan on keepin’ it?”

He glanced up and tightened his hold, that large hand taking complete command of hers.

It was obvious he planned on keeping it.

With a solid twist, she tugged her hand out of his, a rising heat overtaking her cheeks. “I realize things are a bit muddled for you, Brit, but when I ask for somethin’ back, you give it back. Be it a hand or anythin’ else. Agreed?”

He edged closer, his pensive expression gauging her. “I apologize for being unable to remember the details pertaining to our relationship, but are you my wife?”

Her lips parted. Oh, the poor man’s mind had been completely bashed. He didn’t remember her at all, and given his cheeky behavior on the street that day, he probably did have a wife, damn bastard.

Dr. Carter cleared his throat from behind. “Mrs. Crusoe, I recommend you heed my earlier advice of not riling him into a form of paranoia. ’Tis best.”

Mrs. Crusoe? Georgia swung toward the man and pointed at him. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no. There isn’t goin’ to be any of that.”

“Mrs. Crusoe.” Dr. Carter’s voice dropped to a low warning. “I hold you responsible for his health and his delicate state of mind for as long as he is in your care. I will say no more.”

Oh, this couldn’t be right. How could feeding into a man’s delusions be responsible? It wasn’t! She swiveled back, intent on settling this before she took him home. “Never you mind him, Brit. You and I most certainly aren’t married. In truth, I barely consider us friends.”

“You barely consider us friends?” His mouth tightened as he continued to stare. “That isn’t at all what I remember.”

She quirked a brow. “And what exactly do you remember?”

He shifted his scabbed jaw and glanced toward Dr. Carter before recapturing her gaze. “’Tis hardly respectable to say, given that we are not married.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

He smoothed his blood-spattered cravat against his throat and set his chin, avoiding her gaze. “Whilst I am pleased that you are here, for I was beginning to wonder if anyone would come, given my inability to remember names, I ask that we save this conversation for another time. Would you be so kind as to return me to my flat? I’m exhausted.”

She paused. “Your flat? You mean you know where it is?”

His brow wrinkled. “Yes and no. I thought it was located on rue des Francs-Bourgeois, but Dr. Carter informed me that we are not in Paris, but in New York. So I suppose the answer is no. I don’t know where my flat is.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. You know where I live, don’t you?”

She tapped her own temple. “If I knew where you lived, Brit, I’d be droppin’ you off right now and thankin’ the good Lord for havin’ saved me from a guilt I’ve no right to feel.”

He eyed her. “I sense there is an animosity between us.”

“You’d be sensin’ right, given what you wanted out of me before you earned that knock to your head.”

“I see.” He blew out a pained breath and muttered, “I suppose that leaves me to find myself a hotel, as I am not one to perpetuate arguments I cannot even remember.” He paused and glanced down at himself, patting his coat pockets. “Did I not have a pocketbook? How am I to pay for anything?”

Dr. Carter gathered several ledgers from his desk, organizing them. “Your pocketbook is already accounted for, Mr. Crusoe. How are you feeling?”

“Aside from these damnable headaches, I feel remarkably well. Better.”

“Good. ’Tis my hope that the headaches will fade in time. Try to rest.” Dr. Carter rounded the desk with a stack of ledgers in hand. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I intend to retire early tonight and call upon an acquaintance of mine who happens to be the owner of the New-York Evening Post. Perhaps we can get this story into tomorrow’s paper, seeing it has yet to print. Given its popularity, I’m certain other newspapers will follow suit. We’ll commence there and hope for the best.” He inclined his head and strode out of the office.

Georgia swiveled toward the Brit, who quietly observed her with marked curiosity. His gaze drifted down the full length of her and paused on her boots, which peered out from beneath her ankle-high skirts.

“The leather on your boots is almost white,” he commented. “You should buy yourself a new pair.”

He was like a child. “How very observant. If only I could afford a new pair.” Stepping toward him, Georgia grabbed up his gloved hand and pressed his satchel into it. “This is yours, Brit. It has all of your money in it, so I suggest you keep it safe ’til we get across town.”

He hesitated, shifting the satchel in his hand before slipping it into the inner pocket of his gray coat. “Why do you keep calling me Brit?”

“Because that’s what you are. A Brit.”

“I would rather you call me Robinson. I don’t like the way you say Brit.”

“Not to disappoint you, Brit, but I usually call people whatever I want. ’Tis my born right as a United States citizen. I may not be able to vote, but no man is goin’ to tell me I can’t use my tongue.” Georgia paused and pointed to his sleeved coat, noting that the band was missing from his arm. “You had a mournin’ band. Did you lose it? Or did you strip it?”

He glanced down at his arm. “I was wearing a…mourning band?”

“That you were. Right there on your arm.”

He glanced up, searching her face, his features taut and panicked. “Who died?”

Georgia’s stomach dropped all the way down to her toes as she met his gaze. There was an aching vulnerability lingering within those handsome gray eyes that seemed to depend on her for everything. It made her want to give the man everything.

She softened her tone. “I don’t know who died. All I know is that you were wearin’ one when I last saw you.”

He dug his gloved fingertips into the biceps of his right arm and winced. “Why can I not remember?”

“Try not to worry. Rememberin’ is overrated, anyway. Trust me. I wish there was a way I could forget half my life.” She drifted closer, sighed and leaned toward him to get a better look at what needed to be stripped before they crossed into the other side of town. She fingered the sturdy material on the seam of his morning coat. The fine fabric had to be worth ten dollars without the stitching. “Heavens, you’re a walkin’ merchant cart waitin’ to be robbed. We’ll have to alter your appearance ’til we’re able to get rid of these clothes.”

He stiffened, lowering his gaze to her probing fingers. “And what is wrong with my appearance or my clothes?”

“Everythin’.” She sniffed, the heat of his muscled body wafting the subtle fragrance of tonic and penny shaving cream. “I hate to say it, but you even smell wrong.”

He blinked rapidly. “Are you suggesting that I bathe? Because I just did. Fifteen minutes ago.”

“Nah, I’m suggestin’ quite the opposite. I only bathe and scrub once every two days and even that’s considered a bit much in the eyes of where I live. But then again, I’m a woman and you’re not. In my ward, if a man starts playin’ with too much soap and tonic, he’s likely to get a reputation for wearin’ pink garters.”

“I don’t wear pink garters.”

“I didn’t say you did. But that won’t keep the boys from sayin’ it. And you sure as hell don’t want a byname with the word pink in it. Now let’s get rid of some of these fineries, shall we?” She tapped at his cravat. “Off with it.”

He paused, his gaze trailing down to her lips. “Does this mean there is no further need for a hotel?”

Georgia nervously smoothed her hands against the sides of her calico skirts, sensing he was still confused as to who she was. Wetting her lips, she chose her words carefully, hoping not to send him into a panic. “I can only apologize for Dr. Carter. He means well, but it isn’t right makin’ you think I’m someone I’m not.”

His brows flickered. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not your wife or your mistress or whoever you think I am. The name is Georgia. You know, like the state. You can call me that, if you want, but I prefer Mrs. Milton until we get to know each other more.” She gestured toward his throat. “Now remove your cravat.”

He stared her down. “If I ever decide to undress for you, Mrs. Milton, it won’t be upon your command but mine.”

She glared at him. “Oh, now, don’t you get cheeky with me, Brit. I’m not askin’ you to undress for my sake. I’m askin’ you to undress for yours. We can’t have you prancin’ about in silk over on Orange Street. You’ll get dirked. Now take it off.”

He stepped back. “Absolutely not. What would your husband say, Mrs. Milton?”

Her lips thinned. Perhaps it was best he thought Raymond was alive. It would keep him from thinking she was up for a toss. “The man would say, for the good of your own breath, you’d best take off the cravat.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t. He would say, ‘If you take anything off in the presence of my wife, you will cease to breathe.’”

She let out an exasperated laugh. “As amusin’ as I find you and this, all omnis cease runnin’ in an hour. Do you want to walk fifteen blocks in the dark? I don’t. Now take off the cravat. Even with it bein’ spattered with blood, it makes you look too much like a gentleman.”

“I should probably point out that I consider myself to be a gentleman.”

She quirked a brow, challenging him. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I thought you were a Salé pirate. Isn’t that what you told Dr. Carter?”

He shifted his jaw and glanced away. “I cannot trust what I do or do not remember.”

“Which is why you’ll have to trust me over yourself, dear sir, because I’m not the one sufferin’ from memory loss.”

He muttered something and scrubbed a hand through his hair. He winced, letting his hand fall back to his side. “Remind me not to touch my head.”

Georgia softened her tone, hoping a motherly approach would get him to cooperate. “We really ought to remove that silk from around your throat. Won’t you take it off? For me? Please?”

Stepping closer, she reached up and forcefully unraveled his silk cravat, trying to figure out how the damn thing was supposed to come off. The fabric kept sliding against her fingers like cool water. Their gazes locked and she paused, trying to steady her breathing.

He jerked outside of her tugging hands and shifted his broad shoulders, stepping back. “I’m not at all comfortable with you touching me. You are, after all, a very attractive woman and I would hate for this to progress beyond anything either of us would be able to control.”

She set her hands on her hips. What a cad. “If I were lookin’ to progress things, Robinson, I’d be goin’ straight for the trousers. Rest assured, a man’s throat never once made me moan and I highly doubt yours will, either.”

He stared at her, his expression strained. “Refrain from talking to me in such crass tones.”

“I wouldn’t have to talk at all if you were cooperatin’. Now cease bein’ so damn stupid. I’m here to help.” She stepped back toward him, reached up and forcefully finished yanking his cravat off. She tossed it, letting it cascade to the floor.

His gloved hand jumped up to cover his exposed throat, his shaven face flushing. “I really don’t understand why—”

“Silk just isn’t somethin’ men in my parts wear. Men there are poor. Some of them are very poor. There’s no need to give them a reason to hate or rob you. You bein’ an uppity Brit is goin’ to be bad enough. Men will probably fist you based on your accent alone.”

“Oh, and you plan on taking me there?” He lifted a brow. “Shall I thank you for your overall lack of concern for me now? Or later? After I get fisted?”

She rolled her eyes. “You needn’t worry. I’ll see to it you fall under the protection of the boys.”

“The boys?” He lowered his chin. “You intend on placing me under the care of your children? I assure you, madam, my mind isn’t that far gone.”

She gurgled out a laugh. He was so bizarrely adorable. “Nah, it isn’t like that at all. Though sometimes I do wonder.” She glanced toward the open doorway and lowered her voice. “They’re men who act like boys, so I call them boys, see? They’re known for havin’ a black reputation, and believe me, they live up to it, but I know how to yank their collars. I’m just makin’ sure nothin’ happens to you prior to my yankin’ those collars.”

“And who are these men to you?” He eyed her. “Are you involved with any of them?”

“Not in that way, no. They’re more like flea-ridden dogs I can’t get rid of.” She scanned his clothes again and sighed. “I’ll have Matthew loan you some of his clothes. You’re about his size. Give or take a few stones.”

He squinted. “Matthew? Who is that? Your husband?”

“No. My son.”

His lips parted. “You have a son my size? You don’t appear to be a breath over twenty.”

She grinned, tilting her face up toward him. “Thank you for that, but I’m well over twenty. I’m two and twenty.”

He scanned her face. “That still doesn’t make you old enough to have a son my size. He isn’t really your son, is he?”

“Not by birth, no.”

“So whose boy is he?” He leaned in, trailing his gaze to her lips. “And why are you taking care of him?”

She stepped back. “Don’t look at my lips.”

He stepped toward her. “I will keep looking at them until you tell me everything I want to know.”

She scrambled back, sensing that he wanted to do far more than look at them. “He’s Raymond’s boy. All right? Not mine. Raymond’s.”

“And who is Raymond?”

She glared at him. “I’m not about to tell my life story to a man who doesn’t even know his own. Now give me your hand.” She pointed. “We can’t have you wearin’ those gloves.”

He set both gloved hands behind his back and eyed her expectantly. “I don’t intend to cooperate until you tell me who Raymond is.”

“The man is dead,” she bit out. “All right? Now cease actin’ like a bogey and give me your hand.” She forcefully grabbed his arm and jerked it out from behind his back, tugging it up toward her. Digging her fingers beneath the cuff of his linen shirt, she peeled the fitted leather glove from his large hand and tossed it toward the desk.

Without any resistance, he quietly watched her strip the glove from his other hand. His large and remarkably smooth hand tightened possessively around her own.

She paused, entranced by the heat of his hand penetrating her skin. Her body seemed to drift, while her mind remained anchored and fully aware of him and that hand. There was something very different about his touch. Whilst incredibly firm and strong, it was also…soft. Slowly turning his large palm upward, she ran the tips of her calloused fingers against the smoothest masculine palm she’d ever encountered. It was as if he had never touched anything with those hands.

Georgia glanced up. “You most certainly aren’t a pirate.”

“And how do you know? I could be.”

She lifted his hand and tilted it palm upward for him to better see. “Look at your hands.”

He hesitated and lowered his gaze to the hand she held up.

She traced her fingers toward the length of his long fingertips and back toward his large smooth palm. “They’re untouched. See? If you were a pirate, you would have handled ropes and crates, which would have covered your hands in calluses. Given their softness, ’tis obvious your only trade is money.” She snorted. “That would explain why you couldn’t remember how to shave or knot a cravat. You had servants doin’ it for you.”

His mouth tightened as he tilted his hand against hers, intently observing it. “They are smooth, aren’t they?” He sounded disappointed.

She gently shook his hand, not wanting him to feel shame in what he was. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. ’Tis a blessin’, not a curse, I assure you. ’Tis also the truest mark of wealth there is.”

He glanced up. “So I am a man of wealth?”

“With hands like these and silver buttons to match, you most certainly are.” She lowered her voice in warning, squeezing his hand. “Whatever you do, though, Brit, don’t tell anyone, and don’t parade that money in your satchel. You can’t be trustin’ anyone but me from here on out. You hear?”

His fingers curled and tightened around her hand, squeezing his warmth against her own. “And who are you to me?” A huskiness lingered in his uncertain tone as he searched her face. “Why do you care?”

He reminded her so much of herself when she was younger, unwilling to trust but having no other choice but to trust. Although her only family, her dear da, had disappeared many years ago for reasons she would never know, she’d see to it that this man’s family didn’t suffer in the way she had. Someone out there loved him and missed him, and she would ensure he was returned back into their arms where he belonged.

“Consider me a friend who understands what it’s like to be dependent on the love and generosity of others.” She slid her hand from his and pointed to that double row of silver buttons. “Those will have to come off, too.”

He glanced down at his waistcoat, his brows coming together. “What? The buttons?”

“Yes, the buttons. They’re silver, aren’t they?”

“I suppose they are. What of it?”

“It means you’re likely to be robbed of them.”

He fingered one of the buttons. “But they’re attached to my waistcoat.”

“Not for long they aren’t. Let me show you how it’s done over on my street.” She yanked her full skirt up to the knee, exposing the leather holster attached to her thigh, and slid a small blade out before letting her skirts drop again.

He stepped back, his eyes jumping toward the blade. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me.” She grabbed his waist and dragged him back over toward herself. “I only want the buttons.”

He grabbed hold of her wrist, twisting the blade hard and off to the side, away from himself. “All I ask is that you keep it pointed away from me.”

“Oh, cease your brayin’.” She jerked her wrist from his grasp, ignoring the sting. Firmly holding the top silver button away from the embroidered fabric of his waistcoat, she slashed the threads beneath it, catching the button with her other hand.

He searched her face, the resistance in his body waning as the edge of his full mouth quirked. “I like you.”

“Oh, do you, now?” she tossed up at him. “Let’s just see how long that lasts. Very few men like a woman with a quick tongue.”

Holding her gaze, his large hands curved around her waist, causing her to stiffen. He leaned in close, despite the blade in her hand pointing toward him, and asked softly and adoringly, “Mrs. Milton, are you really married? Or are you pretending to be? Because I find you endearing. Tongue, mind and all.” He paused and added, “I also find you to be incredibly attractive. Incredibly.”

The man had apparently lost the last of his mind and his ability to censor his own thoughts. She lowered her gaze, the heat of those lingering hands making her stomach tingle. “I’m not married anymore,” she admitted, her throat tightening at the thought of Raymond. “I was, when I was younger, but he died.”

“Ah.” His hands drifted away from her hips. “Did you love him?”

She edged back and half nodded. “Yes. Very much.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She half nodded again. “Thank you.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Were you and he ever in Paris? Is that where I may know you from?”

She glanced up at him. Her and Raymond in Paris? Oh, now she’d heard it all. Raymond hated the French about as much as he hated the mayor and his politics. Whilst she? She only knew about Paris from Raymond. About all the gardens the Parisians had, the rows of palaces that once belonged to kings, the way they cobbled their streets and even had churches that were almost as old as God himself. “Raymond had been in Paris on business in his younger years when he still had money. As for me, I’ve never once lived a breath outside of New York. I was born here, and though I’m tryin’ to move west, I’ll most likely die here and be buried with a wooden marker that’ll rot away and make everyone forget I was born a redhead.”

He averted his gaze. “You are far too young to be speaking in such gray tones.”

“Where I live, gray is about the only color one sees. But one gets used to it, especially if it’s all they know.” She focused once again on his waistcoat. “Now hold still.”

She leaned in, working the blade against the threads behind each button. She quickly detached all the buttons, catching them in her palm one by one, until his waistcoat hung open, exposing the whitest and brightest linen shirt she’d ever glimpsed. It was as if it had been snatched right off the tailor’s bench.

She released him, shoving all six buttons into the stitched pocket just beneath her left arm. “There.”

Gathering her calico skirts back up, she slid the blade securely back into the holster and let her skirts drop. She paused, sensing he was staring. Having been surrounded by men since she was nine, shortly after the death of her mum, she’d lost all sense of modesty around those who were used to seeing limbs being bared and rarely stared. But this man made her aware of just how important modesty was. It kept a girl out of trouble when it counted most.

She awkwardly glanced toward him. “You didn’t have to look.”

“I couldn’t very well help it.” His jaw tightened as he met her gaze. “Do you lift your skirts for all the boys?”

She pursed her lips, attempting not to be entirely insulted. “Only the ones I intend to gut. So I suggest you mind your tongue.”

“Don’t you worry. I intend to mind my tongue and my eyes.” He glanced away, jerking his now-open waistcoat against his linen shirt and abdomen. “I must say, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”

She paused. “The prodi-what?”

“Prodigal,” he provided.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Wasteful. Prodigal means wasteful.”

“Oh, does it, now? Well, I never heard of the word.”

“And whose fault is that? Not mine, to be sure. Buy yourself a dictionary, my dear.”

She glared at him for being so rude. “If I could afford one, I would. Though I really wouldn’t be surprised if you just made that word up in some pathetic attempt to impress me.”

He raked a gaze down the length of her and smirked. “I can think of a dozen other ways to go about impressing you, Mrs. Milton, and making up words doesn’t readily come to mind.”

She squinted. “You mean it really is a word?”

“Yes, of course it is a word.”

“Huh.” She eyed him. “I’m confused.”

“About what? The word?”

“No.” She waved toward him. “How is it you remember prodi-whatever but can’t remember much else?”

He paused. “That I don’t know.” He shrugged, averting his gaze. “I just remember words, that is all. I see them. I hear them. I cannot readily explain why, but I do. And as I said, the prodigal destruction of a perfectly good waistcoat brings this man to tears.”

She lowered her chin. “Before your tears flood this room and the city, I ought to point out that a silver button can be pawned for as much as seventy-five cents apiece over at the local junk dealer. Over four dollars was dangling off your chest for the world to see. Never give anyone a reason to fleece you, I say, or they will.” Stepping back, she eyed his appearance again. “You still aren’t rough enough. You shouldn’t have shaved.”

She bit her lip and glanced around, wondering what she could do without altogether ripping the seams of his outfit apart. She supposed she could soil it, but with what?

She paused. Coffee. How fitting.

Glancing toward Dr. Carter’s desk, she plucked up the porcelain cup of coffee he’d left on the desk and dipped her finger into it to ensure it wasn’t hot. It wasn’t. “I don’t think Dr. Carter will mind. Hold still. Here’s a toast to what should have been.” Turning back to him, she flung the entire contents of the dark, gritty liquid onto the front of his linen shirt and open waistcoat.

He sucked in a breath and jumped back, his hands popping up into the air. He frantically swiped at his wet, stained clothing and glared at her, his dark hair falling from its neat, brushed state. “Damn you thrice into the pits of hell, woman.” He gestured rigidly toward himself, his face taut and his eyes ablaze. “Why did you think it necessary to ruin a perfectly fine linen shirt?”

He was certainly prim for a man who thought he was a pirate. He couldn’t even swear right. “We’re improvisin’, is all. No one’s linen shirts look that snowy white where I live.”

He gave her a withering look. “Forgive me for having a clean shirt. Shall I rip the seams a bit for you?”

She heaved out a breath. “If you can’t survive bein’ stripped by a woman and havin’ coffee thrown at you, you most certainly won’t survive where I’m takin’ you. You’re over six feet tall. Act like every inch counts, will you? Be a man.”

He released his shirt and stalked toward her, veering in tauntingly close. “’Tis damn well hard to be a man around you. Damn. Well. Hard.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed on her way out of the office.

Men. They were all so self-righteous no matter what their upbringing or how hard you hit them on the head.

CHAPTER FOUR

Of old there was nothing, nor sand, nor sea, nor

cool waves. No earth, no heaven above. Only the

yawning chasm.

—Saemundar Edda, Codex Regius (early fourteenth century)

ROBINSON INTENTLY WATCHED the shadows of wood buildings as they bobbed and rolled by through the small dirt-streaked window at his elbow, waiting to recognize just one thing. And yet he didn’t. Not the buildings. Not the streets. Not the omni he rode in. Not even the night itself. It was as if he were looking out upon a chasm that meant nothing to him. How much longer would he have to live feeling as if he were seeing everything for the first time?

He tightened his jaw and glanced toward the young woman sitting beside him on the bench. Georgia. Like the state. Who the hell named their daughter after a state? It would be like naming one’s daughter after Paris. It bespoke of too much grandeur with very little to show.

Her sloppily gathered strawberry locks quivered within her frayed, beribboned bonnet with each strong sway of the omni that sent her shoulder bumping into his shoulder. Despite the sways that forced their bodies to touch, she indifferently stared out across the narrow space toward the bench opposite their own, which had long been emptied of passengers.

Something about her was so achingly familiar, but for some reason, it didn’t match any of the erotic images she evoked in his head. He could vividly see pale, freckled limbs and cascading long red hair similar to hers splayed out against linen, but there simply wasn’t a face associated with it. Who was the naked woman in his head if it wasn’t this Georgia? Was it a wife he couldn’t remember? Or a…mistress?

God help him either way.

He dragged in a breath. “What do you know about me?” he eventually inquired above the clattering of the wood wheels.

Georgia shifted toward him. Her seductive eyes met his through the dim light of the lantern that swayed above the closed omni door, shifting shadows. “I know as much about you as you know about yourself.”

“Are you certain I never mentioned having a wife?”

“You told me you had no wife.”

“Oh.” Had he lied to her? No. He wasn’t that sort of man. Or rather, he could sense he wasn’t that sort of man. He shifted closer to her on the bench, his thigh bumping hers. “And how do we know each other again?”

“We met on Broadway. You affixed one of the ribbons on my bonnet when it came loose and it led to a bit of conversation.”

“Ah. And was I at least courteous and respectable toward you during our initial interaction?”

She eyed him. “Courteous, you most certainly were. Respectable? Mmm. No. Not really. Not given the way you insisted I join you for coffee. You wouldn’t leave me alone.”

He cleared his throat. “There isn’t anything wrong with a gentleman insisting on mere coffee, is there?”

“If the coffee is at his hotel, I’d say there is.”

He lowered his chin. “I propositioned you?”

“Right there on the street.” She waggled her brows and nudged him. “You practically poured coffee down my throat.”

What breed of a bastard ambushed a woman on the street and tried to drag her over to his hotel under the pretense of coffee? If he ever did remember being that sort of man, he’d up and fist himself. “I can only apologize for my behavior.”

“Apology much appreciated and accepted.”

Scanning her full lips, Robinson tried to conjure a memory of what might have been. He would have remembered making love to a mouth like that, wouldn’t he? But then again, he really couldn’t remember making love to any mouth. It was alarming to know all about what went on between a man and a woman and yet not remember doing any of it aside from some random flash of nakedness belonging to God knows whom. “So what happened between us? Did you and I ever…?”

Her brows rose. “What sort of woman do you take me for? I said no and sent you on your way, is what. You were the one followin’ me like a dog.”

He leaned toward her. “If nothing happened between us, and you know as much about me as I know about myself, why are you taking me home with you? Aren’t you at all worried I might be deranged or how this might affect your reputation? I don’t quite understand your reasoning.”

She clasped her bare hands, bringing them to the lap of her calico gown. “Don’t complicate this, Brit. I’m only doin’ this because I’ve got guilt as deep as the Hudson and you’ve got money to see us both through. I also wasn’t about to let you aimlessly wander the city in your condition.”

He shrugged. “I would have managed.”

“Yes. The way you managed that day on the street and ended up where you are now, completely oblivious to yourself and the world.”

Robinson lapsed into agitated silence, trying to recapture what he could remember. He remembered the hospital and all of the brass beds that lined the hall. He remembered the oatmeallike plaster ceiling that peeled in sections above his bed. He remembered the endless conversations he’d shared with Dr. Carter, who had patiently assisted him in doing things he already knew how to do but oddly couldn’t remember doing. Like how to shave, tie a cravat and read from a book of poems by Robert Burns. “Dr. Carter mentioned an omni being responsible for my condition, but refused to share any details pertaining to the incident. What happened?”

“’Twas sad,” she admitted quietly. “Some pignut slit the strings on my reticule and you chased him in an effort to retrieve it. That’s when the omni swiped you.”

It was so odd to hear about himself doing things he didn’t remember doing. “Rather heroic of me.”

“Actually, here in New York, we call that stupid. A reticule isn’t worth one’s life. For pity’s sake, you tried to dash past a movin’ omni, and, well…those maggots drive like a priest on the way to confession. They never stop. In one short breath—” She leaned in and smacked her hands together. “Bam!”

He lowered his chin. “Bam. I see. And that is when I awoke in the hospital, yes?”

“No. You were conscious thereafter, though not for very long. I knew somethin’ wasn’t right. You could hardly move or talk. I stayed with you the whole while after I delivered you into Dr. Carter’s care. I even tried visitin’ your bed when you regained consciousness, but Dr. Carter wouldn’t let me, seein’ you and most of the men in the hall were half-naked. So I just called on Dr. Carter’s office when I could to ensure you were doin’ well.”

He searched her face. “What made you repeatedly inquire about me?”

“Hospitals aren’t known for their care, Brit, as much as their morgues. I was worried.”

“Yes, the care most certainly was lacking. Some patients slept in their own vomit and were rarely cleaned. I assisted them and others whenever I could. Aside from the stench, I couldn’t bear watching grown men choking on what little was left of their pride.”

She observed him. “How much did Dr. Carter tell you about your condition? Did he talk to you about it at all?”

He shrugged. “Somewhat. He seems to think that when I was flung to the ground, it jarred my brain and affected my ability to recall events.”

“Did he mention that Robinson Crusoe isn’t really your name?”

He glanced at her, his throat tightening. “No. That he did not.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand his so-called medical advice. How are you supposed to assimilate if you aren’t given the means to decipher what is and isn’t real?”

He set his trembling hands on his knees. Why would Dr. Carter have maliciously allowed him to believe otherwise? “How does he know it isn’t my name? It could be. I sense that it is.”

“Not accordin’ to him. He claims that some of the events you speak of, includin’ the name itself, all came out of the pages of a book about a shipwrecked sailor.”

September 30, 1659. I, unhappy Robinson Crusoe, having suffered shipwreck, was driven on this desolate island, which I named the Desolate Island of Despair, the rest being swallowed up in the tempestuous sea.

Pushing out an uneasy breath, he tried to force away those misplaced words that never seemed to stop. “What year is it? I never did ask Dr. Carter.”

She eyed him. “July of 1830.”

Oh, God. He pressed his fingers against his temple, wishing he could shove reality back into it. When would this damnable haze lift? “I cannot be this Robinson. Not given that the year in my head is September of 1659. What in blazes is wrong with me? Why do I have some—some…book burned in my head but nothing else? It doesn’t make any sense.”

She grabbed his hand and shook it. “Try not to rile yourself over it. Give it time. I’ve no doubt your family will settle you back into your way of life when they come.”

He gently clasped his other hand over her small one, basking in its unexpected warmth and comfort. “What if I don’t have a family? What will become of me then?”

“Oh, hush. Everyone always has someone in their life. Be it family or not.” She slipped her hand from his, patting his forearm before setting it back onto her lap. “More than enough time has passed to ensure people are lookin’ for you. And if they’re lookin’, you’d best believe they’ll see the newspapers when it goes to print. They’ll come for you. I know they will.”

Robinson nodded, hoping she was right, because he didn’t want to live like this anymore. He felt like a ghost without a gravestone to refer to. “I appreciate you taking me in.”

“There’s no need to thank me. I’m only puttin’ a roof over your head and feedin’ you. Anyone can do that for a nickel and a dime.”

Money. She would need money, and given her worn boots and frayed bonnet it didn’t appear as if she had very much of it to begin with. He pressed a hand against the satchel weighing his inner coat pocket. “I’m willing to give you half of everything I have in return for your generosity.”

“I’m not about to take half.” She lowered her gaze to his shoulder and leaned in. “But if you’d be willin’ to give me six dollars,” she bargained, “I’ll see to it that all of your food and rent is paid for out of my own pocket. I know six is a lot to ask for, but it would help me fill the last of my box. I earn more than enough from laundry to cover basic expenses, give or take a quarter. We won’t be eatin’ mutton or chops, but porridge, oysters, yams and the likes I can easily fit on the menu.”

Sensing that she wasn’t accustomed to asking for anything, he gently offered, “If you require more than six dollars, so that we may eat better and fill your box, I should hope you will ask for it.”

She smiled, her features brightening. She leaned back against the wooden bench. “You’re beautifully kind, Robinson, but six dollars is all this woman needs to buy herself a new life.”

He blinked. “You intend to buy yourself a new life? For six dollars? Is that even possible?”

“Of course it’s possible.” She lowered her voice. “I’m movin’ out west, you see. To Ohio. I’ve a good friend who used to be a neighbor of mine—Agnes Meehan, who moved out that way with her father shortly after my husband died. She wrote me sayin’ there’s cheap land to be had, and if I could find my way out there with fifty dollars, I could invest in half an acre and work my way toward a better life. So I’ve been savin’ for that half acre ever since, and six dollars is about the last of what I need. That’ll put me at sixty. Five for the stagecoach, five for food and the rest for the land.”

She faced the bench opposite them again, staring out before herself with a dreamy smile still touching her lips. “I intend to farm that half acre and set a one-room cabin on it. It won’t be much, barely a few logs slapped together on a scrap of land, but it’ll be more than enough for me. And just beyond that pile of logs, I’ll plant a row of apple trees that’ll blossom every spring and bear barrels of fruit. Apples, flowers and freshly overturned earth will scent the air durin’ the day, and at night I’ll stand outside on my land, lookin’ up at starry skies, listenin’ to the wind.”

She released a breathy sigh and half nodded. “I’ll be self-made. Not man-made. Though I do plan on marryin’ again. The thought of livin’ alone depresses me.”

Robinson intently observed her, the clatter of the wheels overtaking all sound. God, did he admire the wistful dreaminess in that lilting voice. It made him want everything she had just described, right down to the whistling wind and the apple trees. It held a peaceful and divine purpose found by honest, hard work cradled within a dream and a promise that something could be his. Compared to this void writhing within him, telling him that he owned nothing, not a family or a home or a woman of his own, it was paradise in its truest form.

She glanced out the window. “Time sure does flit. The next stop is already ours. Pardon my reach.” She leaned forward, setting her bare hand on his thigh to balance herself and reached across him to pull on the rope attached to the driver’s leg. “Sometimes these damn drivers claim not to feel the rope. So I make sure they do.”

She set her chin and yanked the rope several more times, the faint scent of crisp soap and lye drifting toward him as she swayed against each solid tug.

A familiar shiver of awareness raced through him. That scent. It was so hauntingly familiar. It whispered to him that if he buried himself within that fragrance, he would forever know compassion, comfort and peace.

He instinctively slid his hand to her back, grazing the small hooks on her gown, and pressed her warmth against the side of his body, desperately wanting to touch her. “Georgia?”

She stiffened and glanced up at him, her hand falling away from the rope and drifting down to his thigh. Her lips parted as her shadowed green eyes searched his face. “What is it? Is something wrong? You not feelin’ well?”

Art thou afraid to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire?

Were those his words responding to his heart in this moment? He didn’t know, but something chanted that if he didn’t attempt to make this woman his, he’d be missing out on the greatest opportunity he’d ever known as a man.

He drew her closer toward himself, his hands rounding her slim shoulders, and whispered, “I want to kiss you. Can I?”

She let out a shaky breath, the warmth of that mouth grazing against his own. “I’m not very good at kissin’.”

Cradling her against the curve of his arm, he pressed her softness against his tensing body. “At least you remember what it’s like.”

She tilted her lips upward toward his own and smirked. “You’re just tryin’ to make me feel sorry for you.”

“Do you?”

“Oddly, yes. I do feel sorry for you.”

“Good.” He lowered his lips to hers. Closing his eyes, he savored the warmth of her soft mouth lingering against his own and better molded his lips against that delicate mouth.

Her moist lips parted. Though he wanted to slide his tongue deep into that mouth and ravage it, he didn’t know if that was something he was supposed to do, so he lingered, hoping she would take the lead. He could barely breathe.

Her hot velvet tongue instantly slid against his own, grazing his teeth. He bit back his own need to groan, as an ache overwhelmed his entire body. He slowly gave in to circling his tongue against hers, sensing the tongue was more than permissible.

She tasted like spiced…whiskey?

She grabbed hold of the lapels on his coat and dragged him down, down onto her, shifting her entire body beneath his own, until they were both practically hanging off the bench. He tightened his hold on her shoulders and waist and dug his booted heels into the floor of the omni to keep them both from falling.

Pressing herself more savagely against him, she pushed her tongue deeper into his mouth, responding to his tongue so fiercely his heart pounded in disbelief. Entranced by the unexpected passion pouring out of her, he reveled in the way that wet tongue moved so erotically against his own. If this were the one and only kiss he were to ever remember as a man, he would honor it with never-ending, glorying pride.

May the lightning of heaven consume me, if I adore thee not to distraction!

Crushing one hand against her bonnet, he slid his other hand down the smooth fabric of her gown, curving it to her firm, corseted waist. He dug the tips of his fingers into the fabric separating them, feeling as if he were racing against his own mind and breath, trying to remain grounded in this incredible reality. He trailed his hand back up toward her breasts, rounding his hand around its softness and weight. His cock swelled from the touch, and the need to rip his clothes apart, in an effort to show her just how divine she was, consumed the last of him. He kissed her harder, frantically digging and grinding his erection into her thigh.

Georgia tightened her lips in an effort to force out his tongue, digging her fingers into his biceps.

Reluctantly breaking their kiss, he dragged her back upright and repositioned her sidesaddle onto his lap. He cradled her for a long moment, her uneven breaths matching his own. It was the first time in nine days he felt like he finally belonged to someone and he swore to himself that he would never let this or her go, lest he be swallowed back into nothingness.

The omni around them swayed to a halt as the driver called out their stop. She shifted to move, but he fiercely held her in place. Reaching up, he trailed the tips of his fingers down past the faded ribbon of her bonnet toward the soft slope of her curving throat. “Take me out west with you,” he insisted in a barely composed tone. “I want everything you spoke of. Right down to the wind and the apple trees. I will give you every last nickel in my pocket if you promise to take me with you.”

Her eyes widened. She shoved his hand away and scrambled outside of his grasp and off his lap. Stumbling forward and onto her feet, she caught herself against the narrow pathway between the two benches leading to the rear door of the omni. “Whatever do you mean you want my land and my apple trees? We barely know each other. Even worse, you don’t even know your name.”

He sat up. “You will need someone to build your cabin, till the land and chop timber. I can do that for you. I can.”

She gawked at him, then shook her head and frantically arranged her skirts. “No. Don’t you be stickin’ your hands into my head and playin’ with my dreams like that. They’re my dreams. You hear? Not yours. Mine.”

He swallowed, his chest tightening. “I need help, Georgia. I need help if I’m going to rebuild a sense of reality. And I think you’re the one to help me do it.”

“Stop it,” she tossed at him in a harsh tone. “I’m not takin’ you with me and I most certainly can’t help you in the way you think I can.”

“I know you can. I felt it before and after we touched.”

She glared at him. “I know what you felt, Brit, and it wasn’t that. I’ve got plans and I’m sorry to say this, because I like you, I really do, but my plans don’t involve a man who doesn’t know his up from his down. A woman such as myself, who has very little to begin with, needs a grain of security. And you aren’t it.”

He scrambled to his feet. “But that kiss—”

“I shouldn’t have allowed for it. All right? I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you. You’re not in your right mind and it was wrong of me. Now just…just get off the damn omni before it takes off and we’re forced to walk half the night.” Throwing open the door, she hurried down the small stairs leading out of the omni and disappeared into the night, leaving him to feel again he belonged to no one and nothing.

CHAPTER FIVE

At Christmas I no more desire a rose

than wish a snow in May’s newfangled shows.

—William Shakespeare, A Pleasant Conceited Comedie Called, Loues labors loft (1598)

ROBINSON JUMPED OUT AFTER Georgia, his boots thudding against the shadowed dirt road, and slammed the rear door of the omni. The boxed carriage reared forward, its large wheels kicking up dust that bit into his watering eyes. An overwhelming stench of festering sewage penetrated his nostrils.

“Bleed me,” he growled, burying the lower half of his face into the crook of his arm in an attempt to block the assaulting stink.

He swung toward Georgia, who was already crossing the wide, dimly lit street. She dodged an oncoming huckster and a peddler cart, disappearing from sight.

He lowered his arm, his heart pounding knowing that his only connection to reality was abandoning him. “Georgia!” He jogged after her, the acrid air crawling down his throat. He swallowed, mentally willing away the sensation of nausea that threatened to heave out his innards. “Do you intend to loathe me for wanting to share in your dream of going west? That hardly seems fair.”

Her shadow reappeared on the pavement just outside the dull, yellowing light of a gas lamppost. She paused and glanced back at him, dropping the folds of her skirts. “Your family is waitin’ for you, Brit. Try to remember that. Someone is out there sheddin’ tears for you, worryin’ themselves into a grave whilst you foolishly talk of chasin’ a dream that isn’t even yours to chase.”

Why did he feel as if she was wrong? Why did he feel as if there was no one waiting for him? Not a mother. Not a wife. No one. “’Tis very difficult for me to care about people I can’t even remember, be they shedding tears for me or not.”

Though he couldn’t see her face against the wavering shadows, he could see the softening of her rigid stance. She blew out a breath. “I suppose I understand.” She waved him over. “Come. We shouldn’t linger. Trouble brews in the dark around these parts.”

Drawing in the sharpness of the dank evening air, he crossed the dirt road toward her, the lone gas lamp flickering as it unevenly lit the mired path before him.

He scanned the stretching width of the dank street. Cramped wooden buildings loomed in the surrounding darkness, murky-yellow lamps lighting broken windows stuffed with rags and heaven knows what else. Silhouettes of men and women lurked on the streets and hovered in doorways. Others casually lounged on the curb of the pavement in small groups, chuckling and having muted conversations as if respectably sitting around a table to dine.

An old man holding a dented tankard staggered past on an angle, bellowing in an off-key tone, “The devil and me, together we pee, yessiree, the devil and me.”

Robinson swallowed against the knot lodged in his throat. Is this where she lived? All of this felt wrong. She didn’t belong here amongst these grimy shadows and broken windows stuffed with rags. No wonder she dreamed of apple trees and open fields.

A headache pinched his skull, making him squint in an attempt to fight against his sudden discomfort. He quickened his stride until he paused before her and a doorstep leading into a large two-story building.

Something snorted and darted past his legs, making him jump aside in heart-pounding astonishment. A round, furless creature wobbled down the pavement and into the inky shadows of the night.

He pointed at it. “What the hell was that?”

“A pig,” she remarked, lowering her gaze and moving around him. “They’re always wanderin’ the street lookin’ for food. Much like everyone else ’round these parts.”

He eyed her. “A pig? In the city?”

She set her chin. “I hate to disappoint you, Brit, but in this ward, pigs are considered highly respectable citizens.”

Sensing she was still irked with him, he edged toward her. “If I had known that I would upset you like this, I would have never kissed you. Know that.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It wasn’t your fault. I willingly gave in to it. I just…I don’t want this turnin’ into a mess, is all. I’ve got plans for a better life and I don’t want those plans to fall aside, see? I’m not gettin’ any younger and the Five Points is agin’ me fast.”

He dragged in a breath and let it out. It chafed knowing that he was nothing but an inconvenience to her, especially after that kiss. Did she kiss all men like that? “I have no intention to impose upon your plans,” he managed.

“Good. It means we’ll get along.” She gestured toward the doorstep leading into a small building whose sparse windows were lit by warm light peering out from behind lopsided curtains. “Follow me and mind the step.”

He lingered as she withdrew a key from a stitched pocket within her gown and opened the entrance door. Waving him into the blurring abyss of a narrow stairwell, she closed the main entrance door behind them.

Grabbing his hand firmly, she guided him into the darkness. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.” He tightened his hold, fingering her small, callus-roughened hand. It was odd to feel as though he was under her protection and mercy.

She gently shook his hand. “Use your other hand to balance yourself against the wall as we go up. There are sixteen stairs. The first always trips everyone up, even me. So mind it.”

He bit back a smile, touched by her mothering. After a few blind pats, he found the wall she was referring to and lifted his booted foot, placing it on the first step. He caught the edge and carefully slid into place. “You do this every night?”

“I have to sleep sometime, don’t I?”

“Are there no lamps to make use of?”

“There are, but they’re usually dashed out by nine-thirty. We’ve had too many fires down the street.” She tightened her fingers around his hand and tugged him upward. “Can’t you go any faster? Raymond was three and fifty the day his heart stopped and he managed to run these stairs up and down in the dark as if he were twenty.”

It wasn’t much of a compliment having that pointed out. Robinson released her hand and hurried up the remaining stairs, boldly taking two at a time in the darkness. Angling past her warmth, he jumped onto the landing with an impressive thud. “There. Did Raymond ever skip stairs in the darkness the way I just did?”

“Never mock a dead man who doesn’t deserve it.” Her hand caught his arm. She tugged him toward the end of what appeared to be a blackened corridor. “There are two floors and four tenements on each floor. Most of the people livin’ here are men. Don’t know how that came to be, but don’t think the worst of me. It’s just how it is. Unlike them, I’m fortunate enough to afford my own tenement. Raymond knew the landlord, so I only pay three dollars a month for what could easily be six.”

She released his hand and patted his arm. “Stay where you are.” There was a chink of a key being pushed into a lock and then a click and the door creaked open.

Her heels echoed against the floorboards and he could hear the flint being struck. A glass oil lamp sputtered to life, brilliantly illuminating not only her pale face but a small yellow-wallpapered kitchen one could easily cross in but three strides. The heavy scent of starch, lye and soap drifted toward him.

“You’ll get used to the smell,” she offered conversationally. “It’s better than the one outside, to be sure. I do all of my work in the front room as opposed to the yard outside, see. That way nothin’ gets stolen.”

She set the glass lamp onto a wooden table set across from a brick hearth bearing a cauldron. She loosened the tie beneath her chin, the blue ribbons cascading in a flutter to her slim shoulders. She stripped the oval bonnet from her head with a sigh and glanced down, neatly retying the ribbon into a perfect bow. Bustling toward the wall, she leaned over a coal bin and hung her bonnet gently from a nail positioned next to another nail that held a faded wooden rosary.

Her thick bundled hair appeared almost brown in the dim light, with only hints of bright red as she turned back to the chair and swept up a plaid apron. She affixed it around her waist with three quick movements.

His eyes dropped from her slim shoulders to her aproned waist. It was like being her husband and peering into a very intimate routine. He rather liked it. It made him feel as if he were walking into his own home and into the arms of a woman who was his.

Remembering the way her hot, wet tongue had eagerly moved against his own, he gripped the wood trim harder to force out any thoughts of wanting her in that way again. It was obvious she didn’t want more of it. Not from him, anyway.

She glanced up and turned toward him. “Are you goin’ to stand there and let the world know I’m home? Shut the door.”

He cleared his throat and stepped into the small room, shutting the door with a thud. He paused, noting three metal bolts. He gestured toward them. “Do you want me to bolt all three?”

“That’s what they’re there for, Brit. To keep the world out. Unless your boxing skills are better than mine.”

She had a reply for everything. He affixed all of the metal latches into place and turned back toward her. Sensing she was still annoyed with him, he held up both hands in truce. Meeting her gaze, he set them behind his back, locking a hand over a wrist against his spine. “I won’t grab for you.”

She smiled, pulled out one of the two chairs from beside the small table and gestured toward it. “Sit. I’m over it.”

If only he was.

He strode toward the chair, pressing his hands tightly against his back, and sat, causing the chair to creak in protest. It wobbled beneath him. Carefully sliding back into it out of fear he’d break it, he slipped his hands out from behind his back and set them on his knees. He shifted, eyeing the small kitchen, and leaned forward to scan the two other adjoining rooms that light didn’t spread into.

She gestured toward one of the small rooms he was looking at. “That there is the closet.”

“The closet?”

“Where I sleep.”

“Don’t you mean the bedchamber?”

She dropped a hand to her side. “Is that what you Brits call it?” She tsked. “You boyos certainly like to make everythin’ sound so much fancier than it really is. It’s a closet with a straw bed and a trunk. Nothin’ more.”

He lowered his gaze down to his boots, sensing she didn’t particularly like the British. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

She sighed. “You can sleep with me on the bed. There’s room and I don’t mind.”

He glanced up. She was really looking to make him suffer. “I hardly think it wise we share a bed.”

“There was no bed on that omni, Robinson, and yet neither of us could keep our hands to ourselves. Between these three small rooms, our bodies are goin’ to be rubbin’ up against each other quite a bit, so you’d best get used to it.”

He feigned a laugh. “I might not physically survive you or this. I’m still a bit astounded by that kiss you gave me. It was remarkable enough for me to want more.”

“I’ll agree that it was, but you really need to try to keep everythin’ buttoned up in those trousers from here on out. If the urge is particularly strong, just ask for some privacy and make use of your hand. All right?”

He shifted his jaw, feeling his body temperature rising. It was like she was a man, not a woman. “I ask that you not talk like that to me, Georgia. I find it unsettling and vulgar coming from your mouth.”

She clicked her tongue at him. “I’m a nun compared to all the other women around me, but I’ll do my best not to offend.” She drifted past him toward the cupboard and pointed toward a corked bottle. “I’ve got whiskey, if you want it. Came straight from the barrel down the street. ’Tis the best in the ward at a dime a gallon and has enough smoke and bite to make it worth your while.”

He let out a low whistle. “In England we call that death.”

A giggle escaped her. She turned toward him, tilting her head to one side to better observe him. “Do you remember anythin’ about England?”

He paused. “No. Not really.”

“Ah, you’re better off, I say. You’re cursed enough. Now. How about you drink up a good tin of whiskey? It’ll help you sleep.”

He shook his head. “No. I would rather not. My mind is muddled enough without—”

A resounding thud hit the adjoining wall, sending a tremor throughout the room.

He rose to his feet. “What was that?”

She winced and waved toward the main wall opposite them. “Never you mind John Andrew Malloy over there. He feels the need to entertain the masses every now and then. Just ignore it.”

“You mean he’s hosting a formal gathering? At this hour?”

She pursed her lips as if he were a complete dolt. “Not quite.”

Steady, rhythmic thuds grew more and more pronounced as muffled moans filtered through the wall. “That’s it, Georgia. Come on. Let me hear it.”

A woman cried out, mingling with those thrusting grunts.

His brows rose as his face and skin prickled with astounded heat. He glanced over at Georgia and gestured toward the wall. “By God. Did he just…say your name? Or did I imagine that?”

She turned and quickly headed over to the cupboard and commenced arranging and rearranging all of her plates, even though they were already arranged.

Apparently, he hadn’t imagined it at all.

Rapid, feverish thumps rattled the plates Georgia tried to reorganize. “Take it, Georgia. Take every last—”

A woman gasped against a massive thud that vibrated the floor beneath Robinson’s boots. “Now, now, not so hard, John! I’m not running a charity here.”

Georgia cringed and swung away, slapping a hand over her mouth.

Robinson’s throat tightened as the need to protect her honor descended upon him like a massive wave crashing to the shore. She didn’t like it. And neither did he.

Stalking over to the wall, he banged his fist against the plaster, causing it to tremor beneath each hit. “John Andrew Malloy!” he boomed, leaning toward the wall and pounding it again. “Unless you want a fist to find its way through this wall and into your skull, I demand you desist using the name of a woman you aren’t even with!”

She choked on a laugh, dropping her hand to her side, and swung toward him. “Shush! He’ll hear you.”

He stepped away from the wall and adjusted his coat in riled agitation. “I hope to God he does. That is vile. You shouldn’t have to listen to that. And neither should I.”

She groaned and yanked her apron up over her face and head, burying herself in it. “If John comes over here, I’ll up and die.”

“If John comes over here, he is going to up and die.”

An anguished moan and one last “Georgia” ripped through the air. Everything soon lulled itself back into silence.

Georgia quietly lingered before the doorless cupboard, her head still buried in her apron. “I’m never comin’ out knowin’ you heard that.” She suffocated a giggle. “Not ever, ever, ever.”

At least she had a sense of humor about it. “You have to come out sometime.”

“No, I don’t.”

Knowing she was being silly, he edged toward the bolted door and, despite hearing nothing, said in a taunting voice, “I hear footsteps.”

She whipped her apron down from her face and gawked at him in exasperation. “You do not.”

“No. But I got you out, did I not?” He leaned against the bolted door and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to appear indifferent even though he was thoroughly agitated to know some man was yelling out her name in the throes of passion. “How often does he do that to you? And why?”

She rolled her eyes, her smooth cheeks flushing. “He has a bit of a fancy for me.”

“A bit? He was saying your name.”

“Oh, all right, more than a fancy.” She glanced toward the wall and lowered her voice, pointing at him. “This doesn’t leave the room.”

Now, this he had to hear. “I won’t say a word.”

She heaved out a breath and waved toward the wall. “John Andrew and this redhead from over on Anthony Street started seein’ each other about a month ago. I thought it was movin’ toward matrimony and was actually quite happy for him. Then I ran into the woman one mornin’ whilst gettin’ my yams, and she thanked me for the business I was givin’ her. I told her I most certainly didn’t know what she was talkin’ about, and that’s when she laughed and told me all about how John Andrew Malloy pays her fifty cents to ride her up the hole he shouldn’t, all whilst callin’ her Georgia.” She snorted. “I about fainted. But better her than me, I say.”

Robinson drew in a ragged breath and let it out. He was going to slaughter this John Andrew Malloy.

A door slammed in the distance beyond, making them both pause. Steady footfalls headed toward them from next door, followed by a knock that vibrated the bolted door he was still leaning against.

“Ey, Georgia!” a man called from the other side. “Open up.”

Her eyes widened as she slammed down a reprimanding foot. “Drat you and that mouth, Robinson!” She hurried toward him, shaking her head, and waved him away with both hands. “Step aside before he chews my door to bits.”

“I intend to chew him to bits. Pardon me.” He whipped toward the door, his chest tightening as he undid the bolts. He was going to scatter the bastard’s innards across the entire length of the corridor.

“No.” Georgia shoved him away from the door and swung a finger toward the shadowed wall where the lamp didn’t reach. “Step into the shadows and put your back against the wall. I don’t want him seein’ your face.”

He squinted at her. “Are you defending this man?”

“No. I’m defendin’ you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “John happens to be one of the boys. And the rule around here is not to stir the pot before you’ve had a chance to put anythin’ in it. You don’t want him spreadin’ rumors and havin’ people hunt you down. He’s known for it. Now get in the shadows.”

He threw up both hands in exasperation and fell against the wall behind him with a thud.

“Don’t say a word until I get rid of him.” She pointed at him one last time as if that were going to keep him in place, then unbolted the door and swung it open.

His brows rose a fraction at what came into view in the dim light just outside his shadowy hiding spot.

A tall, shirtless youth who looked barely old enough to shave casually leaned against the doorway outside, his smooth, muscled chest and face glistening from the sheen of sex-induced sweat. Wool trousers were crookedly affixed on those narrow hips and his two large feet were as bare as the day he was born. He edged in toward Georgia, long strands of blond hair falling into his eyes. “I’ve had a long day, Georgia. Don’t make it longer by telling me what I can and can’t do in me own low closet.”

“You’re touched in the head, John. Touched.” She tapped her forehead with a finger. “I couldn’t care less about what you do in your low closet. I just don’t want to hear it. You’re bein’ overly stupid and loud.”

The edge of John’s mouth lifted. “Just imagine how overly stupid and loud it’d be if it were happening in your low closet?”

Georgia set her hands on her hips. “You’d only snap at the first thrust, John. There’s barely enough of you as it is.”

Robinson bit back an exasperated laugh and shifted against the wall. She certainly knew how to serve up a good tongue.

John paused. “Is that Matthew? Was he the one up and banging on the wall like Fecky the Ninth?” He pushed past Georgia, striding into the room, and jerked to a halt, scanning Robinson. His eyes widened as his sweat-sleeked face flushed all the more. He glanced back over at Georgia. “Who’s this prick? And what’s he doing in your room?”

Robinson narrowed his gaze and pushed away from the wall, ready to fist the runt back out into the corridor where he belonged.

“Back against the wall, Robinson,” Georgia warned, pointing at him. “And don’t say a word.”

Gritting his teeth, Robinson fell back against the wall, but held the youth’s gaze, challenging him to come at him.

John swiped his hair out of his eyes and leaned toward her, his bare chest rising and falling more steadily. “Christ, Georgia. You can’t be trusting men you don’t know. Get rid of him. Before I do.”

“Don’t be playin’ all high and mighty, John, whilst you’re playin’ with your whores loud enough for the whole buildin’ to hear.” Georgia grabbed the youth by the arm, directing him to the open door. “I’ve been behind on the rent by a whole dollar forty-five since my reticule was swiped and I’m boardin’ him to make up for it, is all. So you needn’t be jerkin’ your chin at me. I know what I’m doin’.” She tried shoving him into the corridor.

John yanked his arm away from her and spun back. “You’re doing more than boarding him.” He swiped a hand over his face. “You’re fecking him for extra money to move west, aren’t you?”

She gasped. “I’m not feckin’ him!”

“Like hell you aren’t.”

Robinson shook his head from side to side. “Have a little more respect for the woman,” he called out from up against the wall he was still sentenced to. “And while you’re at it, sir, put on a shirt lest you blind us all with your lack of refinement.”

John’s eyes widened. “Smite me. He’s a fobbing Brit. Sir and all!” Shoving past Georgia, John veered toward him and said through clenched teeth, “You’d best leave lest I bloody you up well enough for your whore of a mother in England to feel it.”

Robinson pushed away from the wall, straightening to his full height of six feet four inches, towering well above the boy by a whole head and a half. “I’d like to see you try, little John.”

“Get out!” Lunging, John snapped out a clenched fist up toward his face.

Robinson vaulted aside as John’s white-knuckled fist smashed into the wall behind him, denting the plaster with a muffled thud that resounded within the room.

“John!” Georgia grabbed John by the waist and dragged him back toward her. “Enough. Enough!”

Robinson held out a strained hand in warning, even though what he really wanted to do was smash the boy’s skull into pieces.

John swatted away Georgia’s hands from around his waist and veered back toward him, his lean chest rising and falling against impassioned breaths. “No one makes a whore out of Georgia. No one. Especially not some prick of a Brit.”

Holding the youth’s gaze, Robinson removed his coat and tossed it toward the chair, readying himself for whatever was about to happen. “The only one making a whore out of Georgia right now is you, John. I suggest you leave. Before she has to witness something she oughtn’t.”

Georgia grabbed the youth by the arm with both hands and yanked him back, using her own body to maneuver his. “As you can see, John, despite him bein’ a Brit, he’s a gent who knows how to control his own two fists. Unlike you.” Turning him back toward the door, she shoved him out into the corridor. “Now get back to your girl.”

“She’s not me girl,” he tossed back, turning back toward her. “I’m only fecking her to keep meself sane, because living next to you on the hour is like living next to the Garden of Eden. Snakes and all!”

“Don’t you worry, this Eve is movin’ the entire garden west and soon. Good night…Adam.” Slamming the door, she bolted all three locks.

“Georgia!” The door rattled. “Georgia, please don’t do this. I’ve got two dollars and thirty-four cents saved up. ’Tis yours if you need it and I sure as hell won’t ask for spit, in turn. Just don’t…don’t feck him.”

Georgia hit the door with a hard, fast fist, rattling the door. “Is that all you think I’m good for? A bloody feck? Off with you, you knacker, before I tell Matthew to slice you up like custard pie and serve you to the locals!”

There was a mutter as footfalls faded. A door slammed.

“What a vile little maggot,” Robinson drawled. “Is feck what I think it is?”

Georgia turned and glared at him. “If that were Matthew or any other man, you would have been dead by now. Don’t think that because you stand well over six feet that you can talk back to these men. This isn’t Broadway where people settle things with a bit of conversation. People here settle for blood. I want you to remember that the next time you mouth off.”

He shifted his jaw. “He was disrespecting you and he was disrespecting me.”

“Get used to it. It’s called life. Sometimes, you’ve got to swallow your pride to ensure you don’t die.” She snatched up the lamp from off the table and disappeared into the adjoining room, momentarily leaving him in shadows.

Robinson swiped an exhausted hand across his face and winced as his fingers scraped against his scab. Seething out a breath, he leaned against the wall. “How old was that bastard, anyway? He looked rather young to be carrying on the way he did.”

“He’s one and twenty,” she called out from within the low closet. She unfolded yellowing linen and spread it onto the straw mattress, smoothing it out. “Not nearly as young as you think. I was eighteen when I became a wife.”

He stared at her. “You were rather young.”

“Young? Don’t be silly. Most girls marry younger to avoid fallin’ into the hands of a brothel, and unlike them, I actually married for love. And a fine love it was.” She half nodded and turned away, her voice fading as she breathed out, “Even if it didn’t last.”

Leaning over, she quietly arranged and rearranged the linen on the bed as if not at all pleased with the way it was laying. He sensed she was actually doing it to avoid any further discussion pertaining to her marriage.

He trailed a hand against the uneven plastered wall as he made his way toward her. “So John is one of the boys?”

“That he is. He can read and write now because of them.”

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