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She stomped on her own toe, crushing the leather of her boot, and slipped. In a flash, David’s arms shot out and grabbed her elbows. Warmth zinged down her spine as her back hit his rather solid chest. “Protecting you. From yourself, apparently, as well as outside threats.” The words vibrated into her body from his.
“Outside threats?” Amalia’s stomach filled with a cold, hard lump. “Has something happened? I thought my mother and President Grant were friends now.” With a jolt, Amalia rocked on her heels, away from David’s body.
“Your parents are fine.” Will, her brother’s other friend, moved so he stood shoulder to shoulder with David. Was he wearing a porter’s uniform? Amalia rubbed her eyes.
Perhaps she was out of sorts.
Perhaps she needed a drink. Or two. Post haste.
“This isn’t about them, this is about you.” Though he hadn’t lost his accent, David’s voice was louder and his manner much more confident than the last time they’d spoken. “Were you expecting someone?” He brushed past her and peered around the room as if h
e was searching for something. Or someone. His eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.
“No, well, maybe? I mean, I’ve done this trek a few times so the staff anticipates my needs. I was hungry, so I thought perhaps someone was already bringing me something to eat.” She wound a still bouncing ringlet around her fingers. Why hadn’t he answered her question?
“You should check before you open the door.” David lifted her bag and opened it, poking his fingers about.
She marched over and snatched the case back from him. “I have my own car and select staff. They don’t permit strangers back here.” She clutched the leather to her chest as tight as she could. Someone would have to pry it from her now. “And you’ve still explained nothing. You cannot poke through my private necessaries with only a vague explanation about ‘threats.’”
Her hands sweat beneath her gloves. The secrets the luggage held burned through the material. Her most humiliating indulgence. The letters. His letters. From the war. As teenagers, they’d masked their identities in case the near indecent missives fell into the wrong hands—“Mr. V,” and “Madame A,” a sobriquet she couldn’t help using again for her beauty advice column in the Philadelphia Inquirer, even if it bound her to the past. Why hadn’t she burned them again?
“Why don’t we settle down and talk about this rationally.” David stepped forward, his legs shoulder-length apart, his hands on either side of his belt buckle. A mistake, because if he used the word “hysterical,” she’d sock him, or better, knee him—best kisses she’d ever had or not. Amalia smacked her hands on her hips.
He held up his palm and his lips softened into an almost sheepish expression. “Sorry, that was a bit...” He ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s just do this without hostility. We’re hardly strangers. We were once friends, used to enjoy each others’ company. I remember every conversation we had. All the jokes. I actually credit you a little for teaching me to read English.”
“Do you?” She whipped around as the ghosts of the past swirled about her mind—all the lost innocence, the war that changed them, and the dalliance she’d mistaken for love instead of a way to stave off the sadness. Her rib cage strained against her corset.
And friends?
Ha. Friendships didn’t come with physical benefits. His letters were pure manipulation, permitting her to think he wanted her, the real her. And she’d kept them. Like a fool. She’d have the servants light a bonfire when she reached home, summer heat be damned.
Amalia flipped her hair over her shoulder. “That was a long time ago. We are strangers now and this is my train car, so I think I’m entitled to some answers before you...do whatever you’re doing. You owe me the full story, including how in the world you all got back here.”
David opened his mouth, but Will placed a hand on his arm, halting him, and answered instead. “We told them the truth. We were hired by your brother to protect you. Thad would’ve come himself, but for the new baby. The Pinkerton Agency’s name carries weight. The line agreed that I could play the role of porter for the rest of the trip so I’d have proper access, but not arouse suspicion.”
Will’s ever placid voice steered conversation back onto its tracks. “Meg, over there—” he indicated with a graceful wave to the woman looming in the doorway “—will act as your lady’s maid.”
Amalia’s mind stuttered and churned. David, a Pinkerton? A rag peddler turned soldier turned...detective?
“We’re protecting you from this person.” David dropped his voice a little and leaned closer, as if shielding her. He pulled a paper from his pocket and slid it into Amalia’s hands. She studied the familiar words, ones she’d read and struggled to ignore for weeks—part of a series mailed to her residence in Indianapolis.
Jezebel. You should be taken out and stoned. Judgment is coming for you and your wicked ways.
The handwriting didn’t belong to any of her former mothers-in-law, which made the sentiments a bit concerning. When her brother found them during his last visit he’d promised not to tell anyone. She was going back home, after all. No one in Delaware would dare look sideways at a Truitt.
You base, vomitous whore.
Tears prickled the back of Amalia’s eyes. Her brother had promised. No one was supposed to know anyone thought those things about her. Especially not David Zisskind, who probably had quite a few opinions regarding her reputation. Especially considering the conduct they’d engaged in—at her request. Amalia grimaced.
Against her better judgment, she perused farther, rereading the increasing venom. She swallowed hard, coughing into her hand as the most malicious accusations assaulted her.
Clutching the paper so tight it crumpled, she turned away from David and instead stared at Meg. A mistake.
“We know this wasn’t the first, ma’am. Or the last.” The woman sniffed in Amalia’s direction and wrinkled her nose as if she caught a whiff of something foul. As if she could detect the truth of the words by scent or had already judged them meritorious.
Thad was a damned tattletale. And a traitor. How could he hire minders like she was a child—she clenched her fists. Or worse, an incompetent. The pressure inside her head grew fierce.
“Is she married to either of you?” The question popped out of Amalia’s mouth of its own accord, leaving her to gape like a flounder ready to be stuffed in its wake. Probably not the most flattering facial expression.
