Lady X's Cowboy (2 page)

“He means the brewery,” Knobby explained. 

“And he wants you to reconsider his offer,” Hard Face continued.  “Otherwise, things could get kinda ugly.”

An even uglier realization dawned.  “George Pryce sent you,” she said, horrified. 

“We didn’t mention no names,” Slump Shoulders said.

“But I know exactly who you are talking about,” she snapped.  Anger, fast and unchecked, began to flood through her.  She began to shake with it.  “And you can go right back and tell him to stuff his offer and his hired toughs right up his overbred bum!  Now
let go of me
.”  Olivia tried to snatch her arm away, but Slump Shoulders held her fast.  She swung her reticule.  It connected with Knobby’s face, then burst open and scattered coins in the street.

Hard Face decided it was time to make a play and lunged for her.  A strangled scream tore from her throat as she braced for impact, extending her free hand like a claw.  She was prepared to fight as hard as she was able, use anything available to her to gain some kind of advantage.  But before Hard Face reached her, a dark shape intercepted him, throwing him to the ground with a thud.  Stunned by this new development, Slump Shoulders released her.

Both Olivia and the other men watched in astonished surprise as Hard Face struggled on the rough pavement with another person—someone new whom nobody had seen or heard approaching.  They wrestled back and forth until the newcomer sat up a bit and began punching her would-be assailant with vicious accuracy.

“The lady don’t want your company,” he said between punches, and she felt her heart stop.  He spoke in the distinctive flat drawl of an American.  She’d met a few businessmen from Boston and New York and their wives when her husband was alive, but unless she was wrong, this man, her protector, wasn’t from Boston, but from the
West
.

Her assailant’s companions managed to rouse themselves from their shock and launched themselves at the American.  She thought for certain that the odds would be too great for him, but she heard him say with a laugh, “Come to join the party, huh, boys?”  Good lord, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

The way he fought, it did seem like a game.  She couldn’t tell much about the American—he was wearing a long duster coat and, yes, she realized with a bubble of hysterical glee, a Stetson—but he seemed much bigger and solid than Pryce’s toughs.  He punched Knobby in the nose and the fellow tumbled over backwards, howling and clutching his face. 

“Damn English nose,” the American chuckled.  “Made out of pure deadwood.”

Slump Shoulders charged, but the American landed an elbow in his stomach.  When the man bent over in pain, the American landed a solid uppercut to his jaw and laid him out flat. 

“And you got a belly like an Arkansas sow.”  The American grinned.

Hard Face unsteadily regained his feet and tried to feint at his opponent, but the American had size and speed to his advantage.  Neatly sidestepping the man, he stuck out a boot and tripped him.  Hard Face’s head thumped on the ground.

The American swung about, fists ready, but no one stood to meet his challenge.  “Don’t quit now, boys,” he said, still laughing.  “I’m just gettin’ my juices flowin’.”

“We don’t want no more of your juices,” groaned the knobby man. 

Olivia wasn’t certain, but she thought the American looked disappointed. 

“Then y’all better apologize to the lady,” he said.

A chorus of moaned
Sorry’
s rose up from the pavement.

“I don’t want your apologies.”  She was still jittery with rage, and it strained her voice.  “I want you to deliver a message of my own.  Tell Pryce that I won’t stand for his bullying.  Tell him my answer is no, and that’s final.”

“Now get the hell out of here,” the American commanded, “before I hog tie and brand your sorry asses.” 

Muttering and swearing, the men gathered themselves and slumped away, arms around one another’s shoulders for support.

The American quickly turned to her.  He had such a zeal and talent for fighting, she nearly expected those powerful fists of his to swing at her, as well.  “You okay, ma’am?” he asked instead, his voice now low and concerned.  It was such an abrupt transformation, it was almost as if he had become another man.  What a puzzle.  She still couldn’t see much of his face, which was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat and hidden behind an enormous mustache, but he loomed over her by at least a half a head.  She wished she could see his eyes, yet somehow she could feel them on her, palpable and alert.

“I think so,” she managed, still reeling from the odd turn of events.  Olivia struggled with the peculiar desire to wrap her arms around him, this cheerfully bloodthirsty American who was as gentle as a wolfhound by the fire. 

“You know those boys?”

Her mouth thinned wryly.  “I’ve never met them before, but I know who sent them.”

“I bet they’ll all think twice before tangling with you again.”

“You deserve all the credit.  Thank you.”

He tugged on the brim of his hat.  “Anything for a lady.”  She sensed those eyes of his on her, warm and assessing, taking in the details of her clothing, her face, even the ridiculous hat the modiste had insisted was the latest rage in Paris, and an answering flush began to spread through her body.  His look felt completely different from the violating leers of the toughs.  It was both gentlemanly and uncivilized.  “You
are
a lady, ain’t you?  I was startin’ to think that maybe all the talk of fine English manners was nothin’ but a dry wind blowing from the south.”

A little laugh jumped up from her belly.  This man had a very colorful way of speaking, but she liked it, much more than the empty bubbles of conversation provided by the gentlemen of her acquaintance.

“Some may call me a lady,” Olivia answered, then, because he was so candid, she could not help but add, “although sometimes I am not sure what that really means.”

“Believe me, ma’am,” the American said gravely, “I ain’t never met a
real
lady ‘til I met you.”  His words slid together, his Western drawl a combination of dark whiskey and honey. 

“Thank you,” she said again, blushing.  She had heard greater compliments, of course—ornate phrases covered in gilding and polished until they took on the sharp brightness of a blade—but it was this American’s simple statement that suddenly gave her an intense rush of pleasure unlike anything she had experienced before.  Perhaps because it had been so honestly rendered, and by a man who probably didn’t give compliments very often.  He looked too rough, too rangy and lean for such nonsense.  But it didn’t feel much like nonsense to her right then. 

The American suddenly narrowed the space between them by reaching down and picking up her discarded novel.  She took an involuntary step backwards.  “This yours?”

She looked down at the book in his large, calloused hand.  Its yellow paper cover looked faintly ridiculous contrasted with the foggy industrial streets of Wandsworth, and infinitely fragile and transitory compared with the weathered strength of his hand.  Across the front of the novel was the title, as well as an illustration of a maiden tied to a post with a cowboy riding to her rescue, guns drawn and ready for action.  The cowboy on the cover wore a long duster coat, a Stetson, and sported a giant, untamed mustache.  Olivia looked back and forth between the cover and the man now holding the book and felt herself grow hot and shivery at the same time. 

He’s a cowboy.

“I...I...” she heard herself stutter.

He peered closer, and for the first time, she saw his eyes.  They were a bright azure blue, the blue of Montana skies, the Rio Grande reflecting the Texas sun, and any number of places she had only read about but never seen.  Until now.  Slowly, she took in the details of him.  His hat was a battered tan Stetson, stained from exposure to the elements, with a braided leather hatband, its brim wide enough to shield him from the sun and rain.  His long brown canvas coat looked equally worn, its bright blanket lining patched in places.  At his neck, he had knotted a red kerchief, and he wore a shirt of soft blue cotton flannel with horn buttons, and a plain black vest with pockets.  She sensed rather than saw that he filled his clothes with lean, hard muscle, the kind gained from honest work under hard conditions rather than an expensive gymnasium or useless sport.

She could not help it...her gaze trailed lower. 

“Where’s your gun?” she managed to ask.

“My what?”  He looked down.  “It’s in my room.  Didn’t think I’d be needin’ my rig.  I thought England was supposed to be civilized.”

He had a gun.  A gunbelt. 
Oh, my
. 

“You sure you’re all right?”  A crease appeared between his eyebrows.  She saw his other hand come up, as if he meant to touch her face, but he stopped himself and let his hand drop to his side.  She wanted to tell him it was all right, even though it wasn’t, but she was pierced with a powerful longing to feel the rough hitch of his skin against hers, sliding down the smooth curve of her cheek.

“Yes,” she managed.  “A little shaken up, is all.”

The American straightened to his full height, and Olivia took stock of the width of his shoulders and the natural grace with which he carried himself.  “It ain’t smart for a woman like you to be alone in a place like this,” he said gruffly.  “Where’s your husband?”

“Gone, I mean, dead, I mean…”  She could not understand where her poise had gone.  Though she was a bit rattled from her encounter with the toughs, it still couldn’t explain her muddled thoughts and complete inability to speak coherently.  She was thirty-two years old, for goodness sake.  Far too old to stutter like a girl fresh from the schoolroom. 

The American removed his hat and looked solemn.  “My condolences, ma’am.”

“It’s all right.”  She sounded terribly breathless.  In the twilight she saw that the American had sandy hair, a bit unkempt but clean.  There was no way to tell how old he was.  His jaw was square, and she followed its line into the strong column of his neck.  She clenched her hands into fists to keep from pressing her palms against the skin of his throat.  She wanted to feel the energy of him.  He had the strength and power of someone quite young, not to mention the enthusiasm for violence, but in his gaze she could see more than a lifetime’s experience.  She wondered what he had experienced.  “It was years ago.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said with a wry, almost boyish smile. 

“You are the first to say so,” she answered back smartly, without offense.

He broke into a wide grin.  “You’re full of pepper.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Ma’am, it’s a great thing.” 

She felt spellbound, liquid, but intensely aware.  He still held her novel, but she wasn’t prepared to claim it just yet.  She wasn’t completely sure whether everything that was happening—everything that had happened—wasn’t some dream from which she would be roused in a moment by Sarah, her maid, who would pour her some chocolate and give her a stack of the day’s correspondence as morning sunlight filled her bedroom.

And then the strangest image sprang into her mind.  In her vision, she wasn’t alone in her bed.  The American was there, too, without a scrap of clothing.  Come to think of it, she was naked, too.

She prayed that he could not read her mind, but she thought she detected the faintest trace of a flush in his tanned cheeks.

The clatter of carriage wheels broke her reverie.

“My lady!” Arthur cried.  “I am so terribly sorry to have kept you waiting—”

“Where the hell have you been?” the American demanded before Olivia could speak.

Her coachman blinked in astonishment and the footman jumped down.

“I should haul your ass down from there and beat you five ways ’til Sunday,” the cowboy continued to rant. 

Arthur shrank back on his post and looked at Olivia with questioning, terrified eyes.

“Some men tried to accost me,” she explained.

“They would’ve done a lot worse if I hadn’t shown up,” the American snarled.  “And on account of you,” he pointed an accusatory finger at Arthur, “bein’ too busy polishing your forehead.”

Arthur gingerly touched a finger to the offending brow.  “The carriage threw a wheel, my lady.  And we could not fix it for love or money.”  He looked extremely upset.  “I will understand if you want my resignation—”

“Damn right!” the American interrupted.

“You will
not
swear in the presence of Lady Xavier,” Arthur insisted haughtily. 

“I’ll cook up your guts and serve ’em for church supper,” the American shot back.  “With cornbread and greens.”

“Enough!” Olivia said, stepping forward with outstretched palms.  She first turned to Arthur.  “You ought to have checked the wheel before you left.”  The coachman bowed his head in acknowledgment of his failure.  “Don’t let it happen again.  I was fortunate that Mister...”  She looked at the American, realizing that she didn’t even know his name.

“Coffin, ma’am,” he supplied.  “Will Coffin.”

A flutter moved through her throat.  What an unbelievably appropriate name.  “Yes...Mister Coffin.  It was quite fortunate that you happened to come by.  Most providential.”  Everything seemed to be turned upside down.  Cowboys in London.  Impossible.  “And what
are
you doing here, Mister Coffin?”  It felt nice to say his name, a bit dangerous, sharp and exotic in her mouth.

“I’m stayin’ across the river,” he said, not fully understanding.  He tilted his head east.  “I think they call it Wapping.”

“You came here all the way from Wapping?” she asked, amazed.  “That’s quite a distance.”

“I like to know what I’m dealin’ with when I go to a new place.”  He was so large, so unlike anything or anyone she had ever known, he continued to amaze her.  “I’m in some flophouse they got down by the docks.  I was gettin’ the lay of the land when I heard the doin’s over here and thought I’d see what was what.”

“I’m very glad you did hear the
doings.
”  She smiled at him and she realized that it was one of the first genuine smiles she’d given anyone in a long time.  And she didn’t even know this man.  “I feel I must offer you some kind of reward for your kindness to me.”