Collision of The Heart (17 page)

Mia rolled beneath the table, kicking at the legs, a chair, the brazier. Agnes screamed. The men shouted. Another gun blast roared through the room.

The inside kitchen door burst open.

Through a tangle of hair and the rungs of a chair, Mia stared at Ayden Goswell, who had what appeared to be a child in his arms. “You think you can trade my lady for this child,” Ayden shouted, “then take him.” And he threw the child straight at Tabard.

Tabard dropped his weapon and grabbed for the baby. A second man charged for Ayden, gun raised. Mia kicked a chair into his path. He crashed to the floor, his bullet blasting away plaster from the ceiling.

Diving beneath the table, Ayden cleared the way for Lambert and two other deputies, guns drawn, to swarm into the kitchen and secure the kidnappers. Two of the men charged for the back door. Lambert brought one down with a shot to his leg. The other tripped over the limp body of the “child” and lost his weapon. Before he could retrieve it, a deputy held him at the muzzle of his weapon.

Tabard remained motionless, his mouth open, his eyes wide as he stared at the baby head he held in his hands.

“It’s a doll.” Mia started to giggle. “It’s one of Rosalie’s dolls.”

“My mother never throws anything away.” Ayden slid out from beneath the table and drew Mia after him. “Let me get you untied.”

He produced a knife no longer than an index finger but looking as old as ancient Rome and sliced through Mia’s bonds. Then, while the deputies bundled the three criminals and Agnes out of the house, Ayden held Mia close, kissing her brow, her eyes, and, finally, her lips. “I love you, Mia, mi amore. I never stopped. I was a fool to think I could live without you even here. I won’t again. I’ll come to Boston or Philadelphia or Bombay, as long as—”

“Shh.” She laid a finger over his lips. “No need. I sent a telegram to tell my editor I won’t be coming back.”

“Mia.” He held her at arm’s length, then released her shoulders to take her hand and draw her into the clean, crisp air of the overgrown garden. “Too smoky in there. I couldn’t see your beautiful eyes. Did you say you aren’t returning to Boston?”

“I’ll have my things sent to me here.”

“But what will you do for work?”

“I can write some articles from here and tutor and teach fencing and . . .” She gave him a coy smile. “Perhaps find a great deal more to occupy my time.”

Ayden rubbed the back of his neck and took several quick breaths. “Like being my wife? We needn’t stay here. I turned in my letter of resignation so I could go with you.”

“Oh, Ayden.” Mia lost a battle with tears and rested her head against his broad shoulder, weeping. “I don’t want to go back to Boston. I want to stay here, where I am loved.” She raised her head. “I never stopped loving you either. I didn’t ask for this assignment, but an editor knew I lived here and asked me to write it.” She toyed with the top button on his coat. “What about Charmaine?”

Ayden’s smile was gentle, a little rueful. “Apparently she left for the East on the first train out of town this morning. She only left Philadelphia because her father would have stopped supporting her if she did not return home.”

“She always looked sad when Philadelphia came into the conversation.” Mia rubbed her cheek on Ayden’s coat. “What will she do there if she has no money from Finney and no work?”

“She will do just fine. You see, there seems to be a certain Irish businessman out there she thinks is worth trying to remind he loved her once.”

“Unless he’s a fool, she’ll succeed.” Hand still shaking, Mia stroked Ayden’s cheek. “But your professorship? If you resigned, how can you stay here?”

“I don’t know what Charmaine said to her father, but Dr. Finney is”—Ayden shook his head—“subdued this morning. I thought he might cry when I resigned.”

“He thinks the world of you. That’s obvious.”

“He said if I change my mind about accepting the position or if you were as brilliant as he thinks you are and decide to stay, I can reapply for the position. And if they decide against me . . .” He shrugged. “I can work with Pa in the hardware store or apply for work elsewhere—if you need to go elsewhere to work. I just want to be with you.”

“Change your mind about accepting the position?” Mia took half a step back. “You mean they were going to offer you the professorship after all?”

Ayden inclined his head. “Charmaine told me last night. I wanted to make you an offer of marriage last night, but I needed to be sure you knew I was free first.” He curved his hands around her cheeks and tilted her face up. “I needed you to know that’s how serious I am this time about how much I love you and want you to marry me.” He glanced around him at the garden where he had first proposed on a warm, moonlit night. He smiled. “Will you marry me, Miss Roper? I love you with all my heart.”

“And I love you with all my heart.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed him. “I’ll marry you and stay here or go anywhere, as long as I am with you, Professor Goswell.”

Epilogue

Hillsdale, Michigan

August 1857

In ten more miles, Euphemia Roper Goswell would reach Hillsdale, Michigan, the town she swore she would never leave again. In ten more miles, she would see her husband of fourteen months and announce exactly why she would stop journeying to research her articles—both reasons why. That would make him happy during the school year when he could not leave his position as professor of classical studies at the college.

More restless than the children in the seat on the opposite side of the car from hers, Mia began to gather up her belongings. She wrapped the light shawl around her shoulders against the approaching coolness of an August evening. She hooked her umbrella over her arm and slung her satchel over one shoulder. Last, but definitely not least, she tucked her portfolio under one arm.

Ayden still didn’t like her carrying the writing case with her everywhere she went. This time, once she showed him the contents, she expected he would be happy she gave the worn leather such tender loving care.

And when he received the rest of her news, he would be the one providing the tender loving care.

She grinned at the prospect and gripped the back of the seat ahead of her, ready to stand and rush to the front of the car the instant the engine drew into the station. She wanted to be the first one onto the platform, knowing as she did that Ayden would be there to greet her after her two-week journey back East. She leaned forward as though she alone co
uld compel the engineer to power on more steam and reach their destination faster.

The train slowed.

“Oh no.” With memories of the wreck still fresh in her mind, Mia cried out in alarm.

Others merely grumbled at a delay in their journey. “Cows on the track or something.”

“Or another train in the way.”

“If we don’t reach Chicago on time—”

Mia missed what would happen if the train got off schedule, as she rose to poke her head out the open window. “I don’t see anything in the way.”

Not that she could see from her car, which was near the rear of the train.

The train halted with a jolt that sent Mia tumbling onto her seat. Her portfolio and umbrella clattered to the floor. With some difficulty, she bent down to retrieve the objects, and when she straightened, Ayden stood in the aisle beside her.

She caught her breath. “What are you doing here?”

“What a way to greet the love of your life.” He drew her from her seat and kissed her soundly, much to the delight or horror of the other passengers. “I have come to take you home.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t get off the train?”

“I didn’t want you to get off the train at the station.” Ayden released her long enough to bow to the gawping passengers. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, for this delay. Once this beautiful lady has come with me, you all will be on your way.”

“But, Ayden—”

“No delaying these good people.” Ayden caught hold of her hand and drew her down the aisle.

The passengers they passed scowled or smiled, and a few offered advice.

“That’s right, lad. Keep her on a tight rein,” an elderly gentleman with a silver-topped cane said.

“Don’t let him push you around, young lady.” The man’s wife addressed Mia.

“Let one who looks like that one drag you anywhere he likes,” another elderly lady said, then cackled like a hen with a newly laid egg.

Mia and Ayden laughed. Her face was hot with mortification at this attention. Ayden held his head high with pride.

At the door to the car, he leaped to the ground and held up his arms. “Jump. I’ll catch you.”

“You had better.” She glanced down. If he dropped her, she would not land in soft snow this time.

But she knew he would catch her. His long, strong fingers curved around her waist, and he swung her to the gravel beside the track with a little “Oomph” of effort.

“This sojourn into the city didn’t make you as skinny as a wormy string bean.” He patted her hip. “I think you gained a pound or two.”

“You aren’t supposed to say things like that to your wife.” Despite her admonition, Mia laughed and poked his ribs with her elbow. “Now what was that scene all about? I would have reached Hillsdale in a few more minutes, and if you want to be alone with me, we would be at our house faster.”

“As much as I want to be alone with you, my beautiful bride, that will have to wait.” Ayden led the way to the old chestnut gelding grazing a few feet from the track. “Your palfrey, my lady.” He bowed, one hand to his chest, the other outstretched.

Mia stared at him. “Have you taken up drinking?”

“Only drunk at the sight of you, as always.”

“Ayden, I can’t ride a horse with all this stuff.”

“I will carry your stuff and walk.”

“But—”

“No arguments. Time is wasting.” He divested her of umbrella, satchel, and portfolio. “Up you go.”

He had positioned the horse near a conveniently fallen log. When she stepped onto this makeshift mounting block, Mia realized the horse wore a sidesaddle. One hand on the pummel, she glanced back to Ayden. “What is this about?”

He merely grinned at her, his dark-blue eyes glinting with amusement.

Uneasiness coiling through her middle, she mounted the horse, glad styles demanded abundant petticoats so her lack of a long riding habit did not matter so much and her modesty was preserved. Reins in hand, she snapped them, and the aging gelding shambled toward town.

“At this pace, we will reach town sometime after supper.” She glanced at the setting sun toward which they rode, observing a trailing puff of smoke from the train engine and the distant outline of the town that had become the most precious place on earth to her. She sighed with contentment.

“How did I ever leave?”

“You wanted a career as a journalist.” Ayden patted her knee. “And you probably would not have gotten the acclaim you have without having gone east.”

“But I had to come back to truly see that acclaim occur.” She gazed down at the man striding beside her, her heart so full she was certain she would burst with all she wanted to tell him when they were alone in their lovely home off Howell Street.

A year and a half earlier, her article about the train wreck that had sent her back into Ayden’s proximity and consequently his arms, had been published in a lady’s periodical, but other publications had gained permission to print her work. Donations poured in for victims of the train wreck and for the generous town that had housed them for over a week. Suddenly Mia found herself with more requests for articles than she could possibly manage, especially when planning a wedding, then becoming Ayden’s wife. Too often, she found herself traveling for research, and when Ayden, hired by the college to be a full professor, could not go with her, it was lonely, not exciting, disruptive of the time she wished to spend with her family—Ayden’s family, now hers—and friends.

But that was all done now.

Her lips curved into a secret smile.

“What’s that look about?” Ayden poked her thigh through her layers of petticoats and gown.

She smacked his hand away. “No one may be around, but we are still in public. Save that kind of behavior for our house.”

“Alas, I must, as we will soon not be alone at all.”

Mia lifted her eyebrows in query, but then she caught a whiff of meat being cooked over open fires. Her nostrils flared, inhaling the succulent aroma of pork and beef nearly ready to eat—a great deal of pork and beef ready to eat. It mingled with the mournful wail of the train whistle as the train made the last curve of track before the station. Music rolled through the evening—happy, lively music that made a body want to tap one’s toes.

She reined in. “What is happening in town?”

He shrugged and kept walking.

“Ayden.” She nudged the gelding to resume and glared at her husband. “This is not Independence Day, so what gives?”

“You’ll see.” He tossed her portfolio into the air and caught it, distracting her long enough for them to round the curve into town, where a banner stretched across the street reading, “Welcome Home, Euphemia Goswell.”

Beyond the banner, at least half the town lined up to greet her. The band played. The people cheered. Ayden took the reins from her hand and led her mount forward.

“It was not my idea,” he shouted back to her.

Her friend Genevieve had organized the celebration, the welcome home for the town’s most famous citizen.

“And the one who has done us the most good,” the mayor intoned in his welcome speech. “We wish to honor you for the work you have done to help this town and victims of the train wreck.” The speech threatened to keep going, but people began to move toward the acres of food provided by town ladies, like Ayden’s mother and sister. They pressed a heaping plate on her, but she couldn’t eat. She was too moved to realize that a woman like her—abandoned by her relatives, compelled to steal pencils and paper to be able to write—could be so honored by the town, so loved by its residents.

Especially one.

Ayden led her home as early as was polite. The door barely closed behind them before he drew her against him and kissed her breathless.

“Do not go away for so long again. Please.” He tossed her hat onto a kitchen chair and her shawl over the back. “Promise.”

“I promise.” She raised her hands to his neck cloth and began to untie the knot.

He caught hold of her hands. “No arguments this time?”

“No arguments.”

“But your writing. Your research.”

“Is done for a while. The research anyway.” She reached for her portfolio.

Ayden groaned. “Must you. I would rather—”

“Patience.” She released the buckle fasteners and drew out a sheaf of papers. “I have a contract to write a book.”

“Do you now?” With a shout, Ayden grabbed the papers and began to read. When he finished, he gave her a look of confusion. “I thought you were going to write more about the wreck.”

“I am, but a novel instead.”

“Oh, Mia, mi amore.” He drew her to him again, crushing the papers. “My very own Charlotte Brontë.”

Mia grimaced. “Not Charlotte. That is a little too close to Charmaine.”

Ayden cupped her chin in his hands. “Still jealous of her?”

Charmaine had finally convinced the man she loved that her father would no longer stand in the way of their marriage. Yet Mia could not forget that Ayden had come within minutes of proposing to the other woman.

“Not jealous. Not now.” Mia tugged his neck cloth from his shirt collar. “I still prefer to use my own name. Or perhaps simply Mrs. Goswell.”

“I like the sound of that.” Ayden’s fingertips caressed the sides of her neck. “Mostly because a novel means you will have to stay home for a while to write it.”

“And longer.” She grasped his hands and lowered them to her waist. “By the time I finish with the book, I will be too fat to travel.”

“Too fat?” His hands pressing on her loosely tied stays, Ayden gave her a blank look for a moment. Then his eyes widened, and his mouth opened as he gasped for air. “You . . . you’re telling me that you . . . that we . . .”

“Yes.” She flung her arms around his neck and buried her face against his broad chest. “We’re going to have a baby in about five months.”

And now her joy in knowing she was taking the right road for her life was complete.