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Dozens of readers had written notes to the paper praising her tips. And why wouldn’t they? She was right. Because with the right armor, one could accomplish anything. Including survive this trip.
“I need to get dressed and right now I have no desire to go in there but...” She bit her lip.
“You don’t trust me to fetch you what you need?” His entire body stiffened and his eyes locked with hers, deep and searching, as if he could read all her secrets. Which was not both frightening and somehow attractive. Not at all.
Amalia glanced down at her lap and plucked a stray thread on the blanket. “As I don’t believe you’ve ever had to describe, let alone wear, women’s clothing, no.” Wiggling from side to side, she pushed herself up.
“You make a lot of assumptions.” David’s lip tipped, but he didn’t explain. “However, if you want to go in alone, be my guest.”
With a second stretch, she rose and wrapped the blanket around her—tight. She motioned to David. “How about we both go? You’ll clean whatever needs to be cleaned, I’ll decide on a gown, and I can wake Maryanne once you’ve disposed of...it.”
“Meg.” David was right behind her as she reached the door to the bedroom suite.
“Close enough. The woman doesn’t like me. I can feel the disdain wafting off her every time she’s near, probably soiling my garments.” Amalia reached towards the handle but couldn’t quite make herself turn, images of the prior night flooded back. Her stomach roiled.
“Actually, Meg knows your sister.” David nudged her, his hand hovering above hers.
“Oh god. She must despise me. Let me guess, she worships at Roseanna’s feet too? The ‘nicest woman’ she’s ever met?” Amalia’s grip tightened on the handle. Roseanna. Her college-educated-happily-married-to-one-man-for-almost-a-decade-with-two-perfect-sons sister. Who was kind and good and beautiful, inside and out, like a damned fairy princess. Who would never fail at anything. Not that she was envious because that was impossible as Roseanna was too damned sweet.
“She likes her.” David’s shrug was audible. His body was close. Very close. So close that if she leaned back a little—No. No, no, no, no.
She flipped back her hair so hard it probably hit him in the face. “Everyone likes Roseanna. The question is does your partner hate me because I’m not Roseanna or because she was forced to stand next to perfection in motion for too long?”
And she was rambling and still not moving. Right. Task at hand. She shrugged. “Not that any of this matters. Being the petty, bratty little sister has its benefits. Tormenting Morgana with menial tasks is expected and rather amusing even if it isn’t very nice. Provided I don’t go too far. I may be taller, but she’s probably faster. Especially since she doesn’t wear proper undergarments. Though I might be more creative. How does she feel about snakes?”
“Morgana?” David snickered a little. “I’m not going to touch that one. As for the rest, I think her animal phobia might be limited to those with hair that could be considered ‘pet-like.’ She’s crawled around on a lot of battlefields and treated a lot of nasty wounds, but cries over veal.” He tilted so near his body grazed hers. Not that it made her shiver. “And I think snakes would be pretty hard to find on a train.”
Since when did he smell of hickory and mint and brandy and...fiddlesticks. She’d not find him attractive again, she’d not, no matter how intriguing this more mature, analytical David was. And even if she did, she’d not engage. Nothing good could come from that. She squeezed the knob.
“Right. So, I’ll just dress quickly and we can each get back to work.” Separately. She straightened her shoulders. “I have a deadline and I’m sure you have guarding or whatever you do, to do. ‘Sentinel-ing.’ My first husband used to like making nouns into verbs.”
A long pause.
“Do you miss him?” David’s voice was low, almost cold. Judging. “Your husband. The first one.”
Ouch. He was quite skilled at emphasis.
She clutched the blanket close and spun so she could face him, her back against the door. “A little.” Amalia patted her throat. “He made me laugh. A lot, which was quite nice. That was the primary reason I married him.”
That and to make what she said all those years ago to David not a lie. Very typical reasons. The fact that Ethan was amusing and amiable, even when it was clear they’d made a rather large error, was a bonus. The lump was back in her throat.
“Because he made you laugh?” Squinty-eyed skepticism from her companion.
She rubbed her arms. “I
found decent conversation a good thing in a marriage. That, along with common goals and values, similar lifestyles, similar backgrounds and ideals...” And a strong resemblance to the fictional fiancé I described to you. Not that she could ever admit it.
“And attraction, I presume? I mean, in the abstract. Isn’t attraction a necessary ingredient for an American marriage? Or continued physical indulgence?”
Amalia froze as a shiver fizzled through her body at the question, the cadence, and the tone. And the echo, so close to words he’d written so long ago.
You make excellent arguments for fashion; artistic expression, amusement, adulation, but there’s one more, is there not? Attraction, I presume?
Ugh. Amalia resisted slapping her hand on her forehead. He was fishing for information to add to his dossier or worse to get her in trouble with her family. The question wasn’t intended as a flirtation. He was implying that she was some sort of “loose woman,” or what have you, to trick her into admitting...something. “You’re asking because of the threats, aren’t you? Because the writer suggested that I’m some sort of wanton...um...strumpet?”
“No. Of course not.” He paused, giving her the inquisitor eyes again. “But now that you mention it, there isn’t any truth in those accusations, is there? If there is, you best tell me now because I can’t protect you if you’re hiding things from me.” He cocked his head, as if challenging her. “I need to know all of your secrets, Amalia.”
He most certainly did not. Not if he was going to use them against her or help her parents deny her charity.
