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The corner of his lip tipped. “Those have improved. Though it’s been a long time since I’ve done that. I’ve schleped papers, much more recently, actually. Loaded and unloaded, for a case.” He flexed his arm, straining the outer wool of his sleeve.
Amalia turned to the side to hide the flush creeping into her cheeks. He was holding back on her with the corset tightening. Lord, what would it be like to be held, truly held, in those arms? She tossed her longest locks over her shoulder and swiveled back to him.
“And I suppose there are the other skills you told me about. Couldn’t you take a single word in a line of text, analyze its placement, its use elsewhere, its alternative meanings and spin an entire line of commentary?”
And finally, he glanced in her direction, a near sheepish half smile on his lips. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hope I didn’t describe what I did with the rabbis like that. That sounds pompous, especially as my time studying was limited.”
She rolled her eyes and gave him a little shove with her elbow. “You are pompous. Very pompous. A passionate, rather adorable pompous, especially when you’re talking about ‘equality’ and the ‘proletariat,’ but pompous nonetheless. Though that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” Full eye contact now. Deep and searching. “Other than the fact you
find pompousness adorable, an oddity I’ll have to note for the file.”
How did that teasing, that banter, always near take her breath away? She was ridiculous. Amalia pinched her thigh beneath her skirts so not to say anything foolish. She coughed. “Well, in the field, didn’t you scout?”
“Yes.” There was a weary caution in his voice.
But somehow, she couldn’t stop speaking to analyze it. “And note changes in enemy lines and directions of tracks in the mud and chinks in formation and spin all that into a prediction—”
“I had a little more information than that.” A shadow crossed David’s face.
No. Someone should muzzle her. Of all the things she could’ve reminded him of, what he and her brother—both her brothers, the one she’d see in a day or two and the one she’d never see again—had done and seen, had to be the worst. Her mind hiccupped and spurted as she searched for some way to fix it, to brush it under the carpet again.
Everything stilled for a long moment, until David released a long, slow breath. He turned back to her with a hint of a grin. “The four of us intercepted communications and eavesdropped. And guarded munitions.”
“Kind of like you’re doing now.” She gave him a bit of faux indignation to chew on. Better to remind him of her failures than of...
“I think you’d be pretty vexed if I compared you to a weapon. As for the rest, most certainly not for this job. Eavesdropping? How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” The smile grew as overexaggerated, mock outrage rang in his voice.
“It’d be very boring.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“I don’t know about that.” It was his turn to lean closer, his voice a soft, deep, melodic whisper. “But I’d probably need a translator.”
She frowned. What did he mean?
He licked the tip of his finger, tipped the newspaper in her direction so she could read the name. The Philadelphia Inquirer. Who knew you could obtain it in the Pittsburgh train station? “What, for example, is the difference between ‘knickers’ and ‘drawers’?”
Lord, he was reading her column. That’s what he’d been doing on the ride? Of all the things... She twisted her fingers even as her heart wobbled against her chest, louder than the beats of the horses. He was reading it. He cared enough to read it. Oh god, what if he found it insipid or lacking, or vapid, vacuous, and verbose?
“Are you blushing, Amalia?” And the smirking, teasing David—one of her favorite Davids—leaned closer. “What’s going on in that head of yours? Nothing immodest or improper or unbefitting a gloved and bustled lady, I hope.”
“No, nothing at all,” she squeaked, even as her body tingled. This David, this flirting David was going to be the death of her. She crossed her ankles beneath her skirt and squeezed her legs together as tight as she could so she didn’t jump on his body because the fact he cared enough to read... As if somehow, after all he’d seen and been through, her life, her words were still important...
David snapped a finger in front of her face. “You never answered my question.”
“What was it again?” A squawk more than a squeak.
“The difference between knickers and drawers. Honestly, it seems like it should be a very simple question for someone with your expertise.” He wagged a finger at her.
“None?” Amalia squeaked the word. Not the most appealing sound. She cleared her throat. “They essentially mean the same thing. They are little feminine breeches to wear under our skirts. I use both terms when I write so not to use the same word too many times. It keeps the reader interested.”
“Huh.” David leaned back and tapped his chin, as if contemplating. “What do you wear under them?”
“Pardon me?” Amalia’s mind went blank for an entire minute. He couldn’t really have asked... Her breath hitched.
“What do you wear under the drawers or knickers or womanly breeches?” David crossed his arms.
“Nothing.” She blinked and shifted a little, rubbing her thighs against each other, the lace and silk humming with friction. “We wear nothing under them. They’re the first undergarment.”
