Silken Promises Read online

  Silken Promises

  Lisa Bingham

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1994 by Lisa Bingham

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition January 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-195-9

  More from Lisa Bingham

  Temptation’s Kiss

  Silken Dreams

  Distant Thunder

  The Bengal Rubies

  Eden Creek

  To Jane Jordan Browne, Bill Peterson, and the gang at Multimedia:

  Thanks for your hospitality, your support, and your insight.

  Prologue

  Illinois

  Summer 1875

  “Why aren’t ye wearin’ any clothes?”

  Jacob Grey jerked awake, blinking against the omnipresent light that was determined to drill straight into his brain. Gradually his vision focused, leaving him peering, one-eyed, at the dry dust-caked grass beneath his cheek. As far as he could see, there was nothing ahead of him but foxtails. Miles and miles of silver-white foxtails that bobbed and shivered in the breeze.

  He squirmed slightly, unsure of the validity of what he saw. When he felt the tickling of grass next to bare skin—skin that ought not to be bare at all—the last vestiges of sleep scattered.

  Twisting so that he could glance over his shoulder, he squinted at the young girl who had hunkered in the dirt and inspected him with the same intensity a scientist might give a bug on a pin.

  “What ye be doin’ out here without any clothes?”

  He heard the words. Heard them, processed them, and deliberated over an answer, but try as he might, he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He could only feel a searing tide of embarrassment creep up his neck and into his cheeks.

  Naked. Blast it all to hell, he was buck as a post and lying in a fallow pasture. He squeezed his lashes shut in the hopes that if he blocked out the sights, he would find this entire situation had been nothing more than a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.

  When he dared to look again, nothing had changed. The foxtails still rustled in the sultry gusts of wind, the sun still hammered into his flesh, and that young, innocent imp still regarded him as if he were some sort of genie who’d popped from a bottle.

  “Have ye lost yer wits then, an’ can’t make a proper answer?”

  He shook his head. It wasn’t much of a response, but it was the best he could do. The last thing he remembered with any clarity at all was finally cornering the thief known as the Gentleman Bandit in the Chicago Mortgage and Thrift. Then he’d heard an explosion, felt a stunning blow to the base of his skull, and…

  Nothing.

  Jacob’s lips tightened and his hands knotted into fists below the ropes that held him. Damn the Bandit for having such a warped sense of humor. Instead of shooting Jacob or beating him black and blue, he’d tied him up and left him in the back-of-beyond somewhere. Jacob could only count his blessings that the thief had dumped him face-down, otherwise he’d have been suffering from far more indignities than he already was.

  As if finding a naked man bound and deserted in a meadow were a normal occurrence, the girl settled onto the grass beside him. Plucking a foxtail from the dirt, she twirled the stem between her fingers, apparently content to sit and wait for his explanation.

  Her hair, bright as sunshine and scraped into a thick braid over one shoulder, was coming loose from its moorings. The wind had tugged tiny tendrils free, and they sprang away from her face to be gilded by the startling afternoon light, affording her with a bedraggled halo. Her features, refined and dainty, were put at a disadvantage by smudges of dirt and too few meals. But her eyes were clear and bright and the most astonishing color of topaz and cinnamon.

  She appeared unconcerned by her less than tidy appearance, unaware of the way the simple homespun blouse hung on her gawky frame, or how her bare shins and feet were exposed by the frayed hem of her skirt. She was dressed in the same ragtag collection of clothes worn by the urchins that thronged the poorer sections of Chicago, but her bright grin didn’t have the hard edge brought by such a hand-to-mouth existence. Surprisingly enough on such a short acquaintance, Jacob had the impression that this child had the countenance of an angel and the mischievous bent of a hoodlum.

  She touched the tip of the foxtail to her cheek and trailed it down the curve of her jaw. Her nose wrinkled beguilingly at the tickling sensation, then she sighed and tossed the weed away. Drawing her legs up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her shins and rested her chin on her knees.

  Not in the least bit shy, she examined him with overt interest, making Jacob acutely aware of what she must see. His hair, clipped short for his job, felt as if it were poking straight out and littered with all manner of leaves and twigs. He knew his face was probably dirty and stained with soot and smoke, while the rest of his body was a shade paler and covered in a score of assorted bruises. His wrists had been pulled behind his spine, then tied to a rope that also secured his knees and ankles.

  “Y’appear a wee bit uncomfortable t’ me.”

  He snorted at the understatement. The lilting brogue and odd juxtaposition of phrases identified her as a foreigner, but Jacob detected an Illinois flatness creeping into the vowels—as if time spent in such midwestern climes was beginning to have an effect.

  Cocking her head, she offered, “Would y’ be likin’ me t’untie yer cords? ’Twouldn’t be a trouble, I assure ye.”

  “Please.” He managed to croak the word past cracked lips and a parched tongue.

  She grinned, her gaze twinkling with unholy glee as she purposely hesitated over her task. “Yer not a madman, are ye? Set free from an asylum? Or a robber? Or a murderer?”

  An involuntary snort of laughter pushed from his throat. “No. I’m a lawman. A deputy.”

  No sooner had the words spilled from his lips than she scrambled to her feet and took a step away—not just physically, but emotionally as well. Jacob was astonished by the immediacy of the transformation. Gone was the teasing minx, and in her place was a suspicious stranger. Where once he had been able to read each thought as if it were tattooed on her forehead, her expression had now become as indecipherable as a sheet of glass.

  “A deputy, ye say?” she questioned, obviously unsure whether she had heard him correctly. “And where would ye be pinnin’ yer star, I’d like t’ know?”

  “Fiona? Fiona, dearlin’, it’s past time we were leavin’.”

  The call came from somewhere over the hill. It was followed by the jingling of traces and the rattle of a wagon.

  “Over here, Papa.” Without further ado, the girl brushed off her skirts and bolted in the direction of the road. She was several yards away when Jacob realized she meant to leave him there.

  “Wait! Aren’t you going to untie me?”

  She turned to face him, walking backward. Those piercing topaz- and cinnamon-colored eyes raked a path from his ears to his toes with insulting thoroughness, effectively assigning him to a place deigned unworthy of her attention.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “If ye were a madman, I’d do i
t. If ye were a thief, I’d do it. If ye were a killer, I might think twice. But a deputy? The world would be a lot better off if ye were left bound for good in a pasture.”

  Offering him a sweet smile worthy of the Madonna herself, she ran the rest of the way to the rutted dirt track and clambered aboard a peddler’s wagon. A crudely painted sign had been attached to the side and read: Dr. McFee’s Traveling Miracle Show.

  Groaning, Jacob fought to loosen his bindings. “Fiona? Fi-o-na!”

  The girl didn’t bother to turn in his direction. He could hear her speaking, but the snatches of words that floated to him sounded more like a poetry recitation than an explanation to her father.

  Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Jacob kept a wary eye on the road. He had to free himself before someone else appeared. With the vein of ill luck he’d been having, some nearsighted shopkeeper would mistake him for a goose and string him up from the nearest tree.

  It took him almost an hour of straining and grunting to escape. By then, his backside was an uncomfortable shade of pink and beginning to sting. Still muttering angrily to himself, Jacob began to pick his way, barefooted, toward a farmhouse on the distant horizon, knowing that he would never—ever—forget the little chit who had left him to burn his buttocks in the hot midday sun.

  He would find her some day. By heaven, he would find her.

  Then Fiona McFee—if that was her real name—would discover the true meaning of the phrase the long arm of the law.

  Chapter 1

  Chicago, 1885

  Fiona wished that when trouble visited her family, it would come with some kind of warning. A shiver up the spine, gooseflesh. Any tangible signal that could have given her more time to think. To plan.

  Stifling her own frustration, she twitched the heavy braid over her shoulder and hurried as quickly as she could down the boardwalk. Jefferson Boulevard teemed with people busy completing their noontime errands. Curses smattered the air like buckshot, commingling with the chatter of shoppers and passersby. Carriages and trolley cars struggled to make their way through the congested streets. Drays jammed the thoroughfares as drivers stopped the conveyances to unload their passengers or goods.

  As far as Fiona was concerned, nothing could be worse than Chicago in mid-August on a sultry afternoon. The smells of summer-baked earth and humanity clashed with the muskier scents of livestock and manure. Everyone appeared intent upon some urgent business, causing the walkways to be crowded with more bodies than a person could count. Certainly more than Fiona found necessary to make a quick escape comfortable.

  Her bootheels thumped on the weathered planks, beating out a hasty staccato rhythm that underscored her urgency. Glancing behind her from time to time, she tried to ensure that she was not being followed, but in the constant flow of people, the task was nearly impossible. She would have to rely upon her instincts, instincts that told her that she had a little time. Not much. But a little.

  Her goal inched closer, from four blocks, to three, to two. Fiona’s fingers itched to lift her skirts so that she could bolt that last slim distance, but she knew such an action would not only be foolhardy, but dangerous as well. Rushing pell-mell down a city street, petticoats flying, never failed to draw attention from the wrong sorts of people. People who had the power to make life difficult for the McFees: spies, interfering busybodies, or lawmen.

  She clutched the basket she held more snugly to her waist. Since discovering the extent of her predicament, the hairs at the base of her neck had prickled as if a thousand sheriffs were watching her. Such fears were nonsense for the time being, she reassured herself. Utter nonsense. Although a deputy had come to find her at the laundry, she’d been able to duck away unseen. No one had followed her.

  A gentleman wearing a bowler jostled her arm, and forgetting to consider the possible repercussions, Fiona muttered, “Mind where yer goin’, y’ big ox!” Fortunately, her words were lost in the noises of a hawker selling slippers on the corner. Fiona set her sights on her destination. One block. Only one block remained.

  A trickle of sweat began to inch down the hollow of her spine. The tight ball of worry exploded in a flurry of silent accusations.

  How could Papa have done this to her? How? She’d heard the deputy asking the manager at the laundry questions, so she had no doubts as to the current reason for their brush with the law. Drat it all! Mickaleen McFee had promised his daughter that he’d had enough of his capers. That he was going to be an honest businessman, settle down, retire.

  Retire her foot! Not twenty minutes earlier, Fiona had discovered he was up to his old tricks again. Trying to pass himself off as the Duke of Buckingham. Hmph! As if anyone with the brains God gave a piss-ant wouldn’t be able to fathom that a portly Irishman with a brogue as thick as clotted cream was in no way related to Her Majesty—or anyone else in the British hierarchy.

  The Duke of Buckingham indeed. Didn’t Mickaleen know that his escapades were beginning to wear a little thin? Didn’t he know that nearly every lawman from Illinois to Virginia had locked the McFees in jail at least once and was determined to do so again? Papa was daft to put them both in such a position and endanger the first real job Fiona had managed to keep in over half a year. If he’d merely been content to stay out of his perpetual scrapes, she would have been collecting her pay come the end of the day. Instead, she was being forced to forfeit her hard-earned coins in order to arrange for the McFees to flee the law. Again.

  Her stomach knotted in a fresh surge of panic. She knew who had sent that deputy after them. She’d heard rumors that Jacob Grey had been seen in town, and she had no doubts whatsoever that he was responsible for the search. If Fiona had known so many years before that abandoning Deputy Jacob Grey in a field of foxtails would have earned her more than her share of repercussions, she would have acted a little differently. She would still have left him lying in the pasture, that’s for certain. But she wouldn’t have approached him, wouldn’t have spoken to him. Anything to avert a decade spent with that man tailing their every move, charting each indiscretion, documenting each fault.

  Her heart sank as she remembered the last occasion the McFees had met up with the lawman: three years ago in the western territories. Her father had been masquerading as the Vicar of Doncashire, collecting monies for the heathens of the New Hebrides. Mickaleen McFee had gathered nearly seven hundred dollars. Then he’d been recognized by Jacob Grey. Shouting that the money was for the “charitable preservation of all things New Hebridian,” he’d been dragged off to the nearest town. Discovering that the current sheriff had been shot in a barroom brawl and now refused to press charges, Grey had been forced to let the McFees go since they’d had the good fortune to be caught twenty miles outside Jacob’s jurisdiction as a territorial marshal. But he’d warned them both that if Mickaleen McFee so much as dipped his little toe into a puddle of trouble in an area where Jacob Grey had any say, the lawman would lock her father in jail and throw away the key.

  The week before, Fiona had heard that Grey had been made a U.S. marshal. Unless Chicago had seceded from the Union in the last twenty-four hours, she and her father stood smack in the middle of that particular jurisdiction.

  The weathered stoop of the Honeycomb Hotel loomed in front of her. Fiona dodged inside and hurried up the front staircase, praying that her father was still napping. If so, it wouldn’t take long to change into the disguises she’d managed to find, make their way to the railway station, then board the first train leading as far away from Illinois as she could afford to send them. Once she’d put a little distance between Jacob Grey and the McFees, she would formulate a more thorough plan.

  Slipping the worn brass key into the lock, she moved into her own quarters. Studying the narrow cubical with its cot and wardrobe, she noted that the door leading into the adjoining room was ajar.

  “Papa?”

  The rustling of bedclothes and the squeak of the bedframe were her only an
swers.

  “Papa, it’s time ye were up.” Dropping her basket on the floor, she yanked open the wardrobe and dragged out a faded carpetbag. Not bothering with niceties, she stuffed her few belongings inside, then began to strip off her clothes. She’d managed to steal some garments from the parochial school’s washline across town. She would dress her father in one of the priest’s flowing robes, then don a pair of overalls and a floppy jacket herself.

  “Papa? Time’s a-wastin’.”

  She reached for the buttons to her blouse, quickly pulling the fasteners from their holes. The minutes ticked in her head like a death knell. She was sure that since the deputy had appeared at MacGinnally’s Laundry, Jacob Grey would soon be on her trail.

  Hefting the carpetbag to a spot next to the door, she returned to the basket. Dumping the “borrowed” clothing onto the bed, she wormed out of her blouse and stepped from her skirt.

  “Papa?” she called more loudly. Her haste added an edge of irritation and more than a touch of the Irish to her tone. “Papa, be gettin’ yer shoes and stockings on quick as ye please. We’ll be needin’ to—”

  “Leave?”

  Fiona had just begun to release the closures of her corset cover when the deep male voice eased out of the shadows from the opposite room. One word. The man had only uttered one word, but she’d felt the gravel-toned growl to her toes.

  Jacob Grey.

  She didn’t bother to retrieve her blouse or shield the bare skin of her shoulders with her hands. That would be the same as admitting that Grey disturbed her. He did. But she didn’t have to admit it. Nor by any sign of discomfiture did she have to reveal the way she felt his gaze trailing down the hollow of her spine as if it were the touch of a bare finger.

  “Well, if it isn’t the high and mighty Jacob Grey.” The words melted from her mouth in a slow drawl. One that clearly relayed her caution and the overwhelming disappointment she felt at having once again been bested by this man. Moving with great care and deliberation, she pivoted to face him.