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The dray passed, the horses trudging on down the street, hooves dropping in weary thuds. The driver’s face was as long as those of his team, his expression just as dull. He made no effort to hurry the animals but sat hunched forward, his hat pushed to the back of his head, the reins dangling in his hands.
The suspect waited until the wagon was well past before attempting the street. Magnus continued following without crossing. He was fairly sure of the final destination. He’d dogged the same footsteps along this same path for a week now as the suspect spent a good deal of money. The largess manifested appeared to indicate that the jewels had been sold rather successfully.
Which was extremely odd since none of the known fences in the city claimed to be aware of a recent sale.
If the thief had found a buyer, it wasn’t just the Stokes woman’s opals that had changed hands. The Hartleby diamonds were still unaccounted for, as were sets of various other precious and semiprecious gems.
Numerous operatives had been put on the job as one robbery followed another. Clients ranging from weeping widows to blustering businessmen had descended on the Pinkerton office demanding results. The local police had not reclaimed the jewels nor had they indicated progress in learning the thief’s identity. But Finley thought he’d discovered a vital clue. Until he could prove his suspicions, he was playing his cards close to his vest.
The suspect entered the expected doorway, the shop of a valise and trunk maker. Finley settled in the mouth of an adjacent alley. He knew from experience that it would be an hour or more before his quarry left.
The door swung open and closed a little later as a young boy emerged, hastily pulling on a sack coat and donning a cloth cap. He gave a quick glance up and down the roadway before heading toward Market Street.
Finley snapped open his pocket watch and consulted it He began to think about dinner, considering various restaurants where he could eat and still keep one eye on the person he trailed. There had been no deviation in the suspect’s schedule in the seven days Finley had been on the job.
A cab rattled up, the wheels clattering noisily, the horse’s hooves striking the pavement sharply. The boy from the shop hopped down from the back of the vehicle and dashed inside. Moments later he returned, struggling with a small trunk. The shop door swung open again as Finley’s suspect and the shop owner emerged and stood watching as the baggage was wrestled aboard.
The boy tugged on the brim of his cloth cap when a coin exchanged hands. The suspect took a warm leave of the luggage maker then murmured a direction to the cab driver and climbed into the interior. After his employer, returned to his work, the shop boy remained gazing after the retreating vehicle, a look of longing in his face.
Caught without transportation to follow, Finley went in search of information. He crossed the road, staring down the way as the cab rounded a corner neatly and was lost from sight. “Somebody’s in a might hurry,” he remarked to the boy.
“Train ta catch,” the youngster said wistfully.
“Wonder where to?” Finley mused. “Sacramento, I’ll bet”
“Further,” the boy insisted. “Headin’ ta the East ta get on a ship.”
Finley shrugged as if in wonder and moved on. He’d barely put the corner of a building between himself and the boy when he took off at a run.
Chapter Three (#ulink_344842f0-e945-5581-aef4-dc5853f95ac6)
To Pierce Abbot Shire Shipping Line San Francisco
Brother dear,
You may run up the flags and pop the champaign. Loath as I am to admit it, you win our wager. The Boston relations are indeed deadly dull. How a social butterfly like yourself ever managed to retain your sanity in their company for an entire month is quite beyond comprehension. Undoubtedly they were the true impetus that kept your nose to the proverbial grindstone.
Hildy and I did enjoy one bit of excitement during our blessedly brief sojourn. Someone nipped off with the family sapphires.
My own modest cache of gems remained untouched, possibly because it is so modest. No, I don’t regret selling off the better stones at the last minute to keep you flush with the bank. I believe in your scheme as I always avowed.
Besides, the boat is quite a delight and I will enjoy the profits more than an untouched dowry or all the gemstones in the world.
The captain made us quite comfortable. I’ve been proclaimed the reigning BELLE for the maiden voyage—who better qualified than this confirmed old spinster?
Shall report all the dazzling details of the trip upon docking in Liverpool.
Your loving sister,
Wyn
Aboard the Shire Liner Nereid
Boston Harbor
Eve of Departure
Garrett stood at the ship’s rail, sable wings of hair whip-ping to blind, his sight as he stared out over the vessels bobbing in the sun dappled bay. The majority of passengers lined the Nereid’s rails, where they could wave excited farewells to friends and relatives. He had taken a stance away from them, savoring his privacy for a brief while longer. Soon the ocean liner would ease away from the pier, leaving the tainted city skyline far behind. However, the social conventions that it represented would sail with them, the state preserved intact, neatly compartmentalized by the price paid for a ticket. His own place among the elite was guaranteed, if not by the location of his state-room, then by his name and the honored invitation he had received to dine at the captain’s table.
He had Deegan to thank for that. Garrett grinned grimly. He would have his revenge on his friend later. For now he was content to stare out to sea, his companions limited to the squawking gulls. His loyal and determined Patroclus was no doubt among the first-class passengers making up to yet another heiress.
There was an autumnal bite in the breeze. It wafted inland off the choppy waters calling to the primeval core of a man and drawing forth the memory of ancient passions in his blood. Although the New England air carried a different scent and taste on its currents, Garrett remembered having felt this particular call before. It had been when he’d taken ship from the shimmering, parched sands of Egypt, running from the fears and impotency he’d felt there. He had stayed at Sybil’s side for three long, sleepless days as her spirit lingered in her fevered, emaciated body. The day he left Sybil and North Africa behind, there had been a pleasant Mediterranean breeze filling the ship’s sails, healing his battered soul with a promise of hope. Back then the world had lain open and new before him, a host of untasted adventure available, and his for the sampling. This time Garrett felt as if Neptune’s wind had snatched away that brief hope, and was searing his soul rather than healing it
He’d kept his mind on other details in the weeks since receiving the wire from home. Consulting with bankers, he’d arranged backing for the mine he’d visited in Brazil and the railroad he’d helped survey in Mexico. Deegan had pitched in, making travel arrangements, writing letters, to all intents and purposes assuming the duties of a secretary. But, although he was doing the work of one, Galloway refused to officially accept the post when it was offered once more. He preferred to remain a companion, albeit a nearly constant one. Within a week, they’d been on a train bound for Wyoming Territory, and from there, along the steel rails to Boston town.
In all, it had taken seven weeks to put his affairs in order. Garrett wished it had been longer. He still wasn’t prepared to face a life at Hawk’s Run.
Perhaps he never would be.
Once he’d thought of this voyage as his last reprieve. The final chance he would have to be the man he wished to be. The arrangements Deegan had made destroyed that hope.
“Damn, but you live under a lucky star,” Galloway had announced upon their arrival days earlier in Boston.
Having nursed depression over his future with the better part of a bottle of whiskey the night before, Garrett hadn’t felt particularly lucky. He’d managed to crawl out of bed and dress, but the drapes in the hotel suite remained tightly closed against the light of day. He barely squinted at his friend before closing his eyes again and covering them with his arm. “I’m quite sure that star fell on me last night,” Garrett said.
“So happens I’ve got a friend who runs a shipping line,” Deegan rambled on enthusiastically. “I checked in with Pierce’s office here and they’ve got berths available on a steamer pulling out on its maiden voyage.”
“Just what I deserve. A coffin in steerage,” Garrett groaned.
Deegan went to the window and threw the drapes open to let the sun spill in, bringing with it glorious pain to Blackhawk’s already throbbing head. “Hell, no,” Dig had insisted. “I told them who you were and got the Shire Line’s equivalent of the President’s Suite.”
His destiny was beyond recall now. His trunks had been delivered aboard the Nereid earlier that day and were resting untouched in the elaborately decorated stateroom. Rather than enjoy the comforts his station in life afforded, Garrett had opted for an isolated corner of the deck in the hope that the breeze would renew his spirit.
Since it had turned traitor, he watched a pair of gulls ride the wind currents.
They looked stationary, as if they were toys suspended by strings, their wings spread wide, their bodies dipping occasionally as the master puppeteer manipulated wires to give them a semblance of life.
Fate was his puppeteer, Garrett mused. Deegan was the current stage manager, pushing him to assume the mantle he had shunned in the past. The estate itself would complete the transition, closing all doors behind him. There would be few moments like this in the coming days, the coming years. He had a part to play. His lines were rusty from disuse, but he’d been born for the role. Bred for it. The richly appointed stateroom, the hand-tailored clothing, the seat at the captain’s table—they were the props, they set the stage. From this day forward he was no longer a man like any other, he was Blackhawk of Hawk’s Run.
The gulls tired of their game. One folded back its wings and dove into the water only to emerge with dinner in its beak a moment later. The other bird fluttered out among the anchored fleet of merchantmen and soon disappeared from sight.
The steam-powered engines had come alive during his reverie, Garrett noticed. They sent a thrumming through the ship that translated itself through the boards of the deck. There was no turning back now. No chance to lose himself. He was committed as never before.
The crowds at the rails nearest the dock sent up cries of excitement, of pleasure, of farewell. With the roar came a shift in the air. The weight in his soul lightened briefly. He’d misjudged Neptune after all. Perhaps if he stayed on deck long enough, the breeze would continue to offer his heart this temporary surcease.
If the brief miracle was the providence of the wind, that is.
Underlying the tide of distant, raised voices was the soft, nearby whisper of silk. The pungent aroma of the bay was replaced by the subtle scent of spring flowers.
Even without the sensory clues, he was aware of the woman’s presence. He had felt her arrival.
She stood the length of two deck chairs away, her stance nearly a replica of his, her forearms resting on the ship’s rail as she gazed out at the dancing waters. A ridiculously flamboyant Gainsborough hat was pinned securely over her spilling flaxen curls. The stiff breeze had spun out a few strands so that they tossed like loose ribbons around her shoulders. She was tall and slender, her figure enhanced by the narrow cut of her suit, the fitted jacket, long waistline, draped apron and green-striped fabric all obviously chosen to draw a man’s appreciative eye.
She sighed with obvious pleasure when the ship pulled away from the dock.
Her eyes were closed when she lifted her face toward the bay breeze. Bright, wind-whipped color touched her cheeks, her lips parted as if she anticipated a lover’s kiss. She breathed deeply a moment, savoring the taste of the air. And with her action, his interest was further pricked.
It had been weeks since he’d indulged his carnal appe-tites and the matter of selecting a willing partner had al-ways been a most enjoyable part of the game. A journey of eight days lay ahead of them. Dalliance with a lovely woman would ease the despair in his heart. Or at least keep it at a distance until they reached England.
This one was a remarkedly beautiful woman. Incredibly long, dark lashes lay like unfurled ebony fans against her rice paper skin. They were exotic and at odds with her breeze-tossed blond tresses.
When her lashes lifted, it was to reveal eyes the shade of thickly wooded pine forests, mysterious, shadowed and intriguing. They widened in surprise, clouding with confusion, when she realized Garrett was staring.
“I hope I haven’t intruded on your thoughts or disturbed your solitude,” she said.
Her voice was cultured, her accent that of the western American coast rather than the eastern from which they sailed. There was a faint throaty purr in her tone that reminded him of a contented feline. Or a satisfied mistress.
‘’Not at all,” Garrett assured. “My official claim on this section of decking has yet to be filed at the assay office.”
Her amused smile started a pleasant tightening sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“My appearance was timely then,” she said.
“Most, from my view,” Garrett agreed. “My own company was becoming a bit of a bore.” He nodded toward the hallooing of the crowd. “No one to see you off?”
She shrugged and stared out over the water again. “It’s doubtful they could even find me in the crush.”
Because she wore gloves he had no inkling as to whether she wore another man’s ring. He guessed that she was traveling without a male escort, for any man would be a fool to let this beauty out of his sight.
“Besides,” she added, her voice growing nostalgic, “I’m one of Trident’s hedonists. My grandfather was a ship’s captain and I seem to have inherited a love for the feel of the wind on my face and the taste of the sea on my tongue.”
She was a most unusual woman, Garrett mused.
There were many lovely ladies littering his past. His success in London had not been tied solely to financial transactions. Before he’d gone to Egypt in Sybil’s wake, he’d cut a bold swath through the ballrooms of the elite, seducing many a lovely guest or sultry hostess during the movements of a dance, rutting amongst many a cuckolded peer’s lace-edged sheets. There had been little pleasure in any of the affairs. He’d been labeled the black-hearted Blackhawk before his arrival and had merely played each scene as it was written.
None of the beauties in the past could be compared to the lovely, disheveled woman who dallied with him at the ship’s rail, not even Sybil.
The wind drew a long strand of her flaxen hair across her face. It brushed her cheek, teased her nose, caressed her mouth. When it eluded her grasp, Garrett took the opportunity to close the distance between them. Without asking her permission, he trapped the errant lock between his fingers.
It was the texture of finely spun silk threads and glistened with a sheen more akin to moonlight than sunlight. Her hand grazed against his when they both moved to secure the curl beneath her hat.
“Perhaps I’d better do this,” she said.
If they’d still been alone, he would have been tempted to rip her ridiculously large picture hat away, to free her pale golden tresses so that they entangled in the wind. Then he could bury his hands among the glorious strands and turn her face up to his. But they were no longer alone. The Nereid was nearing the mouth of the bay and other passengers were strolling the decks, invading what had once been his preserve alone.
His alluring companion tucked the tangled curls back beneath her hat. White, even teeth worried a corner of her bottom lip as she worked. Despite the crowds, Garrett nearly gave in to the compulsion to draw her close and kiss her. Savor her.
“There. Much better,” she announced brightly. “Thank you for coming to my aid, sir.”
“It was an honor,” he avowed, forcing himself to look away from her lips. “But the name isn’t Galahad, it’s Blackhawk. Garrett Blackhawk.”
Galahad. Wyn paused as the name sounded an unwelcome echo in her mind. Deegan had dredged up that particular knight of the Round Table in conjunction with his courting of Leonore Cronin. The Galahad of legend had been pure, noble and unselfish. That description hadn’t fit Deegan and she doubted the high-minded ideals would settle any easier on Mr. Blackhawk’s broad shoulders. At least he had disclaimed any resemblance to the knight.
He was attractive, too, although perhaps a bit forward. When his eyes had lingered on her lips, she’d felt breathless. There had been a singing in her blood, and an excited fluttering beneath her ribs that she hadn’t felt since Deegan Galloway had enthralled her senses.
Garrett Blackhawk made her feel that way with nothing more than a look.
What a frightening and thrilling sensation!
And how comforting to know that she no longer had money with which to tempt the man. No doubt he had recognized the expensive tailoring of her clothing and equated that with wealth, which she would have again if each voyage the Nereid made was profitable. That was in the future though. For now, she felt safe.
“It is a pleasure to meet a fellow traveler, Mr. Black-hawk,” she declared. “I’m Winona Abbot.”
She offered Blackhawk her hand and was faintly disappointed when he didn’t play the gallant and place a kiss on her wrist or on the back of her gloved hand.
Instead his fingers curled around hers, his grip firm and businesslike. It lingered long enough for her to experience another delightful chill of awareness.
“Winona,” he repeated, his voice appearing to caress each syllable of her name. “It’s quite unusual and beautiful. Like its owner.”
Wyn smiled to herself. Oh, yes, he had definitely staked a claim. There wasn’t a man alive who could deal with a woman honestly. They felt the need to flirt, to cajole, to compliment. Well, this time she would enjoy the experience but she wouldn’t be hurt when he was revealed as a cad.
If only she didn’t find these roguish bounders so attractive.
“In the language of the Sioux Indians, Winona translates to firstborn daughter,” she explained. “Or so I’ve been told. And what about you, Mr. Blackhawk?”
His smile was rakish but perhaps she only thought so because his coloring was so dark, his skin so warm, his eyes so bold. He was as tall as her brother Pierce, a fact that appealed to her. Due to her own above-average height, she often met men eye-to-eye. With Blackhawk her eyes were level with his lips. It had to be the reason her gaze returned to linger on them so often.
“The Blackhawks are Saxon rather than Sioux, despite certain similarities in name imagery,” he said. “We had a strain or two of Celt creep in before the Conquest but there hasn’t been much culling from other bloodlines since then.”
His voice was a pleasant baritone, yet not overly deep. It was the crisp way he pronounced some words and yet seemed to linger over others that drew her. It wasn’t just that his tone differed from that of American men. A host of English men materialized each season in San Francisco, many on the lookout for wealthy wives. Blackhawk’s voice was similar to theirs and yet it wasn’t. Perhaps the difference was that his words were more a caress than a sound.
What a fanciful thought!
“Would you care to tour the deck with me, Miss Abbot?” he asked.
Fanciful or not, his voice was blatantly sensual. She felt it to the tips of her toes.
Wyn shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I already have an engagement.”
“Later, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
When she made no immediate move to leave, he closed the scant space between them even more until the hem of her skirt brushed the toes of his boots. He took her gloved hand and raised it in his. Wyn was barely conscious of her surroundings when at long last his lips brushed audaciously over her fingertips.
The breeze was fresher now that they were at sea, but the passion in Blackhawk’s eyes held the chill at bay, and warmed her. His hair was as dark as his name implied and lay in tumbled splendor over his brow. She recognized the work of a master tailor in the cut and fit of his dark suit, and of an artist in the design of his boots. Deegan had dressed as dapperly, though. Clothes were part and parcel of a fortune hunter’s trade.
“What are you thinking, Miss Abbot?” Blackhawk asked, recalling Wyn to the present.
