Lady X's Cowboy (18 page)

Will smiled into his glass, thinking that he should tell her later about Greywell’s popularity.  Then his smile faded as he wondered what, exactly, he was supposed to say to her at all the next time he saw her.  He’d been steps away from shucking her clothes off and taking her right on top of the piano.  The memory made his jaw tighten.  One of her servants could have walked in and seen everything, and he knew that gossip flew faster and hotter than a Nebraska summer.  Word would be all over town about how Lady Xavier had been slumming with a cowboy, and her reputation wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel.  Having met her fancy friends earlier tonight, he didn’t doubt they’d grab onto any scandal and rattle it, and her, to pieces.  The disgrace would cost her the brewery, too.  Pryce wouldn’t waver about snatching it away from her when she was down.

But he couldn’t apologize, since he wasn’t sorry for kissing her.  Damn, if he knew that kissing Lady Olivia Xavier was going to be that good, he wouldn’t have waited nearly as long as he had.  He couldn’t remember the last time just kissing a woman had sent his blood shooting to the moon, but she’d sent him all the way to Jupiter and back.

More people came over to Portbury and playfully demanded that they be introduced to Will.  He found himself shaking hands with several men and women, someone named Blarney Bill, and Jinks, and the girls Kitty and Dinah, their hands as rough as his own, their accents twangy and unrefined, their clothes clean but well-used.  People with jobs.  His kind of people.   

He grinned and laughed and accepted their jokes about America, thinking that for the first time since he’d come to England, he felt at ease, comfortable.  He wondered if his kin were the sort to come to this kind of saloon.  But he kept thinking of Olivia, who never came to a place like this even though she made their beer, and who kissed like she had a wildfire burning inside of her.

“Have a dance with me, ducks,” Kitty shouted over the din.

He wasn’t inclined to dance with her, even though she was pretty and wholesome, but he was enough of a gentleman to say, “I’d be delighted, ma’am.”

Kitty giggled and took up a position in his arms in the middle of the floor, where several other couples were stomping in a kind of reel.  He’d been to some dances in his time and was able to move the game Miss Kitty around the floor passably well.  She grinned up at him, blonde curls bouncing in her eyes, and waved at her friends shouting encouragements from the bar.

They had been dancing for several minutes when Kitty asked, so low he thought he’d misheard, “So, who is the lucky lady?”

“Beg pardon, ma’am?”

“You’ve been smiling this whole time, but you’re about a hundred miles away,” she explained without recrimination.  “Usually when a bloke’s got a look like yours on his face, he’s thinking of a lady.  Who is she?”

“Somebody I can’t have,” he said after a moment.

“Why not?  Any bird with a pinch of brains would want a brawny chap like you.”  She gave him a looking over that could have stripped bark off an oak.

He smiled at the compliment, but he could feel the hollowness of the gesture.  “I ain’t what you’d call on her level.”

“You dress like one of ’em, though,” Kitty pointed out.  “And look mighty grand, if I may say.”

“Just a costume,” he said with a shake of his head.  “I’m about as common as a man can get.”

“And she’s high-born, right?”  When he didn’t answer, Kitty’s look became much more knowing.  “’Course,” she said wryly.  “We lower classes got to keep our place.  Don’t try to rise too high, or we’ll get beat down.”  

He was still silent, but the truth of her words hit him hard.  Everyone in England knew how things worked.  The rich and powerful kept to their own, and the workers stayed well out of their way, or else they would both face the consequences.  Even if he did try to pursue something with Olivia, eventually he was going to leave, return to the country and world he knew best, and she would stay behind to face the shame that would inevitably follow.  Whether she regretted her actions or not, her class would make her suffer.  Pryce would ruin her.

“Don’t look too down at the mouth, ducks,” Kitty chided him.  “You got a room full of friends and good music on the piano.  Whatever happens tomorrow, just forget yourself tonight.”

“Right,” he said, winking.  “Forget.”  And he swung her around the room to prove her point, making Kitty shriek with glee.  But he knew that even if he could forget himself, he could never forget Olivia.

Chapter Ten

George Pryce drummed his fingers on the wooden table, while casting furtive glances over his shoulder to make sure no one spotted him at this exceedingly unfashionable Shoreditch fish and chip shop.

“Expecting someone?” Maddox drawled from across the table.  No one knew his Christian name; he was called only Maddox and answered to nothing else.  Pryce had tried to ferret out more information on him when one of his more disreputable associates mentioned that Maddox was the man to call when all others had failed.  Whoever this man was, he kept his background well-hidden.  Pryce wanted it that way—he didn’t need anyone tying his name, or his family’s, to the underworld’s clean-up man.

“Nobody,” he answered quickly.  “I want to be sure that no one I know spots me here with you.”

Maddox smirked from beneath his mustache.  He looked like some of the middleweight pugilists that sparred in the basement of a few gentlemen’s clubs, not a large man, but built of solid muscle and able to inflict damage.  He had a white scar cutting across one eyebrow—evidence of the kind of dangerous life he led.  “I doubt anybody of your acquaintance frequents chip shops.  That’s why I picked this location for our meeting.  I give my punters privacy.”  He popped a hot chip into his mouth.  “Sure you don’t want one, gov’nor?” 

Pryce shuddered at the greasy paper covered in fried potatoes.  “I only eat
pomme frites
,” he sniffed.

With a shrug, Maddox added more malt vinegar to his chips.  “Suit yourself.  You’re paying.”

Eager to have this meeting over with, Pryce said, “You know all the details of my situation.  Can you help me?”

“You’ve been playing kids’ games too long,” Maddox said.  “If you want to do things right, you do it my way.”  He leaned across the table and fixed Pryce with his black eyes.  “You understand me, gov’nor?”

Pryce swallowed, then nodded.  He’d set another part of his plan in motion yesterday, but that was only a delaying tactic.  Lady Xavier would find some way to wriggle out of his grasp, and he wanted to settle the matter for good.

“I understand,” he finally said.  “So, what do you intend to do?”

“I did some reading on the train from Liverpool.”  Maddox reached into his coat pocket.  He threw a few cheap paperback novels onto the table.  As Pryce bent closer to examine them, Maddox explained, “Books by someone named Ned Buntline.  He writes all about men like that American who’s been giving you added trouble.  Cowboys,” he added, mocking.

“I’m paying you to get rid of him and that woman, not read,” Pryce muttered.

Maddox folded his arms across his chest and looked bored.  “Listen, gov’nor, before I strike, I need to know my enemies: how they think, the way their minds work.  So I do a bit of research, get my strategy.”

“So?” Pryce demanded.  “Have you learned anything?”

After picking through the pile of now soggy chips, Maddox found one to his satisfaction and gave it a thorough soaking in vinegar before biting down on it.  “I’ve learned a lot,” he finally answered, chewing.  “I’ve learned that men like me, we’re called hired guns.  And we always get the job done.”

Even after a night of drinking, Will was an early riser.  Years on the drive had taught him to be up at first light, no matter how tired, hung over or uneasy he was.  Right now, he was all three.  He’d somehow managed to get back to Olivia’s place at around two in the morning, and, after shucking his expensive suit, he’d collapsed in bed, head reeling from a night of heavy drinking and thoughts of her.

So when he roused himself at seven—pretty late by trail standards—scratched his beard off, thrown on his usual clothes and lumbered downstairs, he’d expected to either find Olivia calmly sipping her tea in the breakfast room or still in bed.  But she was neither.

“She’s gone to Greywell’s, sir,” Mordon told him as he poured himself a cup of strong, black coffee in the empty breakfast room.

“Why so early?” he asked, voice like a rusted bucket.

“I believe there seemed to be a spot of disorder at the brewery, sir.  Shall I fix you a plate for breakfast?”

“No, thanks,” Will said, troubled.  He bolted back his coffee, gratefully letting it scald its way down his throat and into his stomach.  “I have to get down there.”  If there was any trouble, and it concerned Olivia, he wanted to be involved.  The more he thought about what George Pryce could do to her, the more enraged and edgy he became.  If only he’d been able to mop the floor with that lousy son of a bitch yesterday.

But, damn it, why had she run off without him?  He was staying with her because she wanted his help with Greywell’s, and looking for his family in exchange for his services, but this morning she’d already hit the trail with him snoring in bed like a hibernating bear. 

The thought annoyed him.  He kept his word.  When he said he would do something, he did it.  And that meant lending a hand when there was trouble at the brewery.  Was she so rattled by what happened last night that she left him out in the cold?  Did she think he wouldn’t want to help? 

Before Will realized it, Mordon had handed him his Stetson and duster and was putting him into a cab.  The sound of the horse’s hooves clattering on the pavement made him wince, but he took the opportunity to let the coffee work its magic.  He needed a level head for the day, but anger was getting the better of him.  Did Olivia really think, even after last night, he wouldn’t want to do his job?  Her opinion of him must be lower than a shoat wallowing in a muddy ditch.

Huntworth, the brewery’s manager, met him as he stomped through the main entrance.  The little keg of a man looked upset.

“Where’s Oli—Lady Xavier?”

“In the office,” Huntworth said before hurrying away.

He found her bent over one of the desks, her head braced in her hands as she bent over a large book, with several clerks running around holding telegrams.  At the sound of his boots on the floorboards, she looked up, and he saw dark rings under her eyes.  Some of his anger dried up, seeing her so troubled, but not all of it.  He was supposed to shoulder that trouble for her, not sit in the audience like a yokel.

“Why didn’t you get me up?” he growled.  “I’m here to do my job.”

She shook her head.  “There’s nothing you can do.  Pryce has found a way to disrupt my business without resorting to physical intimidation.” 

“I ain’t just about swingin’ my fists.”

She gave a tired smile, but it was short lived.  “I know.  But this is something I don’t think even you can fix.”  Turning back to the book in front of her, she rubbed one hand over her pale face.

His vexation ebbed, leaving him a bit lost.  Even if he couldn’t quite solve the problem, he hated being left out.  But he had bigger worries than his own hurt pride. 

He hated to see the tension and worry in her slim shoulders.  He wished he could shoulder that weight.  If she’d let him, he’d bear it himself.  But between the room full of clerks and the scene last night, he didn’t think saying so would be much appreciated right now.  Standing next to her, he saw she was reading some kind of listing or directory.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He bought out my hops distributor,” Olivia said, furious.  “And hops are one of the most important elements in brewing.  They give the beer its aroma, its bitterness.  Without hops, I’m ruined.”

“Get another distributor.”

“I’m trying.”  She pointed to the book spread out before her.  “I’ve got a listing of hops growers, and have been trying to contact them since five this morning.  But almost all of them have sold their crops to other brewers—or Pryce.  And then there’s the matter of finding the right
kind
of hops.  Greywell’s has been using Fuggles for the past few years.”

The name Fuggles would have made Will laugh under normal circumstances, but things were just too tense.  “Let me help.  I can do more than just rope steers.”

For a moment, he thought she would say no, leave him out again, but then, with a weary nod of her head, she said, “Thank you,” and pushed back from the desk.  As she stood, he made himself take a few steps back, because if he didn’t, he’d surely want to wrap her up in his arms and press comforting kisses to the top of her head.  Given the state of everything, he didn’t think she would appreciate that.

Each day grew more complicated than the last.  Olivia knew she and Will had to clear the air between them, straighten out exactly what to make of their attraction—meaning, nothing could be made of it, and they both had to understand that.  But he seemed to know that already, since he’d fled her home and hadn’t come back until very late.  She knew exactly the hour of his return, since she’d lain awake listening for him.  Where had he gone?  In whose company did he spend his time?  Judging by the grim expression on his face, it didn’t seem like he had enjoyed himself, but she couldn’t suppress the stab of jealousy that hit her unexpectedly.  Perhaps she had been cowardly, leaving him behind that morning, but she wasn’t able to sort herself out after a sleepless night.  And Pryce’s latest assault against her threw everything into chaos.

She didn’t have room in her life for these feelings.  She hadn’t for a long while.  All she’d been able to do was keep her head above water.  Yet Will occupied so much space in her thoughts, she could barely focus on the tasks at hand.  He had awakened her from a long slumber, but to what reality?  Certainly he was better than any dream she might have, but so much more complicated.

They spent all day and well into the evening trying to find a hops farmer with a large enough crop.  Telegram after telegram went out and was received.  The process was unendurably slow.  She began to think that perhaps telephones weren’t such a bad idea after all.