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This time, however, he was staring directly back at her in the reflection.
Her insides lurched. Her hand flew to her midriff, fearful she wasn’t able to keep it down this time. Slightly unsteady, she turned to Mrs. Radford and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling grand. If you’ll please excuse me.”
The woman simply raised her hand and gave a wave of dismissal. Grateful, she probably moved faster than she should have. Feeling light-headed, she struggled to maintain upright on the rocking contraption causing her to lose her balance and accidentally striking her ankle against her chair leg. It took all her willpower to bite back the cry of pain the contact made on the old injury she gained as a child.
However, long ago, she had learned to control those shows of weaknesses. Otherwise, it gave her enemies far too much power.
* * *
“Moira has been suffering terribly from motion sickness for the entire trip,” Allison Radford leaned forward to whisper to Sam as if the copper-haired woman had a case of leprosy.
Sam watched her leave the dining car, her pace definitely slower, but still no sign of a limp. “Does she also suffer from a bad leg?”
“Hmm?” Harold scarcely looked interested as he answered. “No, no bad leg.”
“She doesn’t limp?”
“Of course not.” He turned in time to watch Moira James disappear from the car, but not before shooting Sam a curious frown. “Why do you ask?”
He produced a false grin and shook his head. “No reason. Just thought she reminded me of someone.”
The answer seemed to appease Harold Radford for he turned his attention back to his lunch. Sam grabbed his hat, then pushed to his feet. “If you’ll pardon me for a moment.”
They barely acknowledged him as he slid away from the table and followed the woman out of the dining car. Because of her slow gait, she hadn’t gotten very far. Walking into the passenger carriage, he came to an abrupt halt when he noticed the slightest trace of a limp in her gait. At the sound of the car door opening, she glanced over her shoulder, spotted him then paled.
Sam moved forward at a slow canter. “Can I be of any assistance to you?”
“I don’t be needing yer help,” she snapped, anger momentarily darkening those pale eyes. Then she pulled herself together and straightened her back. “I’m grand, thank ye.”
“Forgive me, I thought your leg was giving you trouble.”
Those icy blue eyes were full of suspicion when she shot him a quick glance. “Tis fine.”
“Were you not limping just now?”
Her gaze narrowed, but she said, “I accidentally hit it on me chair when I left the table.”
“So you did injure it,” he stated with false concern. “Then I insist you allow me to assist you.”
“No, sir. I thank ye, but tis not necessary.”
“Actually, I was hoping to have a private word with you anyway.”
An almost transparent set of brows drew together. “Whatever for?”
Before saying anything further, he gestured ahead and said, “Shall we?”
She did not budge. “I think not. Whatever it is ye be wanting, Mr. Michalski, ye can say here.”
He looked down at her, noticing a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. They made her appear almost childlike. But it was a different story in her eyes. Their unusual color left a haunting feel. As if no life stared back from within their depths.
“I wondered if perhaps I had been correct. Our paths had crossed once before,” he lied.
“I already told ye. I don’t know ya. Believe me, I would have remembered.”
“How’s that?”
A brief pause followed, filled with a swift look of female appreciation. Then it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
