Rosamunda's Revenge Page 15

  This time he had no trouble deciphering Rosamunda’s yip as being one of disapprobation.

  “Oh, good heavens, we can’t allow that to happen, Mr. Hardcastle. We simply can’t!”

  When she turned those huge, worried, blue eyes upon him, Jed felt his knees turn to jelly, his nether regions stiffen, and his resolve to be a gentleman wobble. Mentally knocking himself about the head and shoulders, he stiffened his resolve and commanded his manly parts to unstiffen and behave themselves.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you, Miss Grantham. Or your dog.” He looked at Rosamunda, who scowled at him as if it had been he rather than Mr. Pickleflickle who’d ransacked Tacita’s room. “I’ll take a look through the train to see if I can find him.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No you won’t.” Jed frowned heavily at her. “You stay here. That’s all we need is to have Rosie start yapping and warn him off.”

  “Rosamunda,” Tacita corrected, although her voice lacked conviction.

  Rosamunda lifted her lip in a sneer.

  “I—we—well—are you sure it’s safe for us to stay here by ourselves?”

  Tacita’s voice was very soft, as though she feared appearing foolish in Jed’s eyes. Jed thought she was merely showing uncommonly good sense in asking such a practical question. The urge assailed him to declare that he’d never leave her side, that he’d guide and guard her into the jaws of hell and out the other side, should she ask it of him. Sanity prevailed and he refrained.

  “I’ll leave you my derringer, ma’am. Keep the door locked and make sure you don’t open it to anybody but me.”

  “Oh, my,” whispered into his ears, tickled his brain and made him go giddy for a moment.

  Shaking off the feeling, he drew the tiny gun out of his breast pocket and handed it to Tacita. The derringer, which had almost got lost in his own palm, looked about normal-sized when Tacita lifted it up with two fingers, as though she were afraid it might decide to shoot her of its own accord.

  “Is—is it loaded?”

  “Wouldn’t do much good if it wasn’t, would it?”

  She cleared her throat. “It’s just that I’ve never had anything to do with firearms before, Mr. Hardcastle. I’d hate to wound anybody by accident.” Her expression darkened when she added, “Although I think I’d enjoy shooting Mr. Picinisco.”

  “Just don’t pull the trigger, ma’am, and you won’t hurt anybody. But you can sure point it at anybody who tries to break in. Even a tiny gun like that will make most men think twice before they do anything the person holding the gun doesn’t want ‘em to.”

  Looking dubiously at the derringer, Tacita murmured, “I suppose so.”

  Rosamunda eyed the tiny weapon as if she’d like to have charge of it. Jed didn’t expect the dog would have as many scruples as her mistress about who it shot, and spared a moment to be glad dogs didn’t have opposable thumbs.

  Striving to be as inconspicuous as possible—no mean feat for so large a man—he searched through every car on the train. When he was through, he searched them all again the other way. Twice he thought he’d spotted Piscafella, but both times the man he saw vanished in a flash. He didn’t like the idea of Tacita sharing space on the same train with a man who’d caused her such distress. He didn’t like it at all. Unless and until he found the blackguard and tied him up, though, he guessed he’d have to settle for protecting her.

  He began to wonder if he should spend the night in Tacita’s bedroom in order to protect her should Pinkerninker attempt a break-in overnight. Almost immediately, he realized his imagination was becoming overheated.

  The good Lord knew, the rest of him became overheated at the idea of sleeping in a closed room with her overnight. He wasn’t sure how much more of Tacita Grantham’s intimate presence he could stand without succumbing to his base impulses. They were getting baser and more difficult to resist as the hours passed. Although, he admitted unhappily, Tacita might have something to say if he attempted anything untoward. The knowledge did little to cool his ardor.

  # # #

  Rosamunda scowled as she stared out the sooty window of Tacita’s stateroom and watched the dark night whiz past.

  It was about time somebody besides herself recognized the villainous Mr. Cesare. She was only sorry it had been Jed who’d done so. She didn’t like being beholden to him for anything. Nor did she like having to give him credit for anything.

  Mistress was upset, too. At the moment, she was pacing back and forth in the tiny room, looking worried and wringing her hands. The derringer Jed had given her rested on the washing-up stand in the corner because Tacita didn’t want to handle the deadly weapon unless she had to. Rosamunda guessed she didn’t blame her, since Tacita was so squeamish about such things.

  Rosamunda herself would have had no compunction about protecting the both of them with a gun. Which just went to show that the resolution of a Yorkshire terrier female was far superior to that of a human female, even though human females were much better at slicing up thin strips of sirloin into bite-sized pieces than were their Yorkie sisters.

  Tacita’s restlessness was making Rosamunda’s nerves jump. She lifted her head and uttered an admonitory growl then squeaked in surprise when Tacita swept her up and into her arms.

  “Oh, darling, I’m worried, too. I’m just terrified that something might happen to Mr. Hardcastle. What if that awful man hurts him?”

  While she appreciated Tacita nuzzling her neck in such a comforting manner, Rosamunda couldn’t understand how she’d managed to misinterpret her admonishing growl to mean she was anxious about Jed Hardcastle’s welfare. Rosamunda? Not bloody likely, to use an epithet borrowed from an infancy spent in Great Britain.

  “Do you suppose that dreadful man will try to shoot him?”

  In Rosamunda’s opinion that wasn’t very likely, either, since Jed Hardcastle could easily overpower the chubby Mr. Cesare. Since she couldn’t communicate her opinion to Tacita, she was unable to reassure her.

  Rosamunda resigned herself to being carted back and forth across the room since Tacita didn’t seem inclined to relax. With a sigh, she settled herself into Tacita’s arms. At least she could still look out the window, for all the good it did her. She couldn’t see much but the telegraph poles as the train raced past them. She’d heard somebody say the train was traveling at the alarming speed of thirty-five miles an hour, a speed almost mind-boggling, and one that wouldn’t even have been attempted if Yorkies ran things.

  All at once, something beyond the window caught her eye. Her ears shot up even as she yipped to capture Tacita’s attention.

  “What is it, darling? Oh, dear, I hope it’s nobody who’s going to try to break into our room.”

  Rosamunda almost bit Tacita again to get her to focus her attention on the obvious. Fortunately, after only a few seconds, Mistress noticed what Rosamunda had noticed, so she didn’t have to.

  “Oh! My goodness, what in the world is that?”

  To Rosamunda’s way of thinking, it was obvious what it was. Every now and then she regretted the physical limitations separating humans from canines, as removal of those limitations would make the human race simpler to communicate with. Most of the time, of course, she didn’t want any more to do with humans than absolutely necessary.

  Striding to the window, Tacita leaned over and pressed her face against the glass. There, outside their window, another train was passing on the tracks running beside the ones their own train rode upon.

  “My goodness, that train’s going fast. Why, I do believe it’s going even faster than ours.”

  It was true. As she watched, Rosamunda saw the train, a short, sleek model with only five cars, draw alongside the one they were on.

  Suddenly, Mistress uttered a sharp shriek, which hurt Rosamunda’s ears. She barked to tell her so, but Tacita didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her, which hurt her feelings. Then Tacita spoke, sending Rosamunda’s grievance flying right out of her he
ad.

  “Good grief, darling, isn’t that Uncle Luther?”

  Rosamunda sat up straight in Tacita’s arms and stared into the window of the passing train. When she saw Luther Adams Williamson shooting past in the other train, she was shocked to her daintily trimmed toenails.

  # # #

  “Are you absolutely sure, ma’am?”

  Troubled, Jed peered at Tacita over his coffee cup. He’d searched the train from stem to stern several times over, but had been unable to catch more than those two brief glimpses of the man who might or might not have been his quarry. He’d finally gone to sleep sitting with his back against Tacita’s door. Since he’d fallen over sideways every time the train rocked, his night had been far from restful. This morning his eyes felt gritty, his head ached, he was exhausted, and he wished they were already in San Francisco.

  This latest twist in Tacita’s tale struck him as all too possible. Who else but her uncle would have sent Piskaniska after Tacita? Even though Jed couldn’t fathom what the man would want with the pot-hole terrier. Because he felt rotten, he scowled at Rosamunda. She bared her teeth back at him.

  “I’m as sure as I can be,” Tacita said. “Mind you, it was dark and the train was moving very fast, but there was a light on in the other car, and I swear it was Uncle Luther at the window. Almost as soon as I saw him, he turned away from me, but I know it was he.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I wonder what he’s doing headed north. The last I knew, he was on his way back home.”

  “I ‘spect he’s on his way to San Francisco,” Jed muttered.

  “Oh, do you really think so?”

  Tacita’s smile was entirely too cheerful for Jed to take on an empty stomach and no sleep. He wished the waiter would bring his breakfast. Irritated, he asked, “Well, don’t you?”

  Her face innocent of guile, she said, “Why should he be on his way to San Francisco, Mr. Hardcastle?”

  Jed chuffed out an exasperated breath. “For Pete’s sake, Miss Grantham, he’s the one causing you all this trouble. Don’t you see that yet?”

  She blinked several times before her lips parted into an expression of hurt. Those lips were far too enticing for him to contemplate in his weakened condition, and Jed had to look away. He used the time to scan the dining car. Of course, Piskywisky wasn’t in it this morning.

  The Indian fellow and the British gent had renewed their argument. As the two men walked past their table and out of the dining car, deep in conversation, Jed frowned after them because he felt grumpy.

  “Oh, Mr. Hardcastle, not Uncle Luther. You can’t still believe him to have sent that man after me. Surely you must be mistaken.”

  Uncomfortable with Tacita’s distress, Jed shifted his shoulders into a hunch. “I don’t think I’m wrong, ma’am.”

  Tacita followed a small silence with, “Oh, dear. But—but what does he want? What could I have that he can’t just ask me for? Except Rosamunda, of course, but I can’t imagine why he’d want to take her. He never seemed to pay any attention to her at all.”

  “Well, that’s one thing in his favor, at any rate.”

  Rosamunda growled. Jed growled back.

  “Mr. Hardcastle! How can you say such a mean thing?” She hugged Rosamunda to her bosom, and Jed had to look away.

  He didn’t like the suspicious glitter in her eyes, though. If there was one thing he didn’t need this morning, it was a weepy female. Especially one he’d like to comfort in questionable ways.

  He grumbled, “Sorry, Miss Grantham,” and didn’t mean it.

  “But what can he want?” Tacita persisted. Her face screwed up into an expression of intense concentration. Jed had an almost overwhelming urge to divert her attention in an all-too-physical manner.

  “I don’t know, ma’am.” He took another gulp of scalding coffee and hoped the pain would keep his mind on higher matters. “What about that dog collar?” He eyed Rosamunda with loathing; she returned the look with one equally scathing.

  Tacita glanced down at Rosamunda, who rested beside her on another chair. “I’m sure that’s not it, Mr. Hardcastle. He never commented about the collar or paid any attention to it. In fact, as I said before, he never paid any attention to Rosamunda at all.”

  “How’d he manage that?” Jed regretted the sarcasm he heard in his voice. He chalked it up to his state of weariness.

  “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Hardcastle?”

  Tacita looked at Jed as though she’d never even heard about her dog attacking anything that came within three feet of it. He shook his head when he realized she honestly didn’t get it. “Nothing, ma’am. I didn’t mean a thing.”

  Rosamunda didn’t even bother to voice her opinion of Jed’s astringency. Sometimes humans were just too silly for barks.

  Things came to a head that morning after breakfast. Jed was looking forward to falling asleep on the floor of Tacita’s stateroom, an arrangement Tacita suggested as preferable to him propping up her door. Jed had objected but ultimately agreed, as he needed to catch up on his sleep or he wouldn’t be good for anything.

  As he stood in the hallway and Tacita unlocked her door and pushed it open, his eyes were already closing, in fact.

  A duet of sharp screams made them open back up again in a hurry.

  Tacita followed up her scream with a shrieked, “Who are you?”

  “Oh, my goodness gracious, I must have found myself in the wrong compartment! How terribly foolish I am, to be sure!”

  It was the Indian fellow who had been arguing for the past two days with that sissy Englishman. Jed, in no mood to play games, was not amused. He picked the fellow up by his collar and slammed him against the wall.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Mister. And don’t tell me you made a mistake, either!”

  “Oh, please be careful, Mr. Hardcastle. Don’t kill him!”

  “Why not?” Jed growled, furious.

  Apparently Tacita could think of no good answer, because she remained silent and only clutched Rosamunda, who looked as if she’d gladly help Jed dispatch the intruder. Jed lifted the man higher, shook him hard, and took pleasure—which he knew to be unkind—in the fact that the fellow was slight enough to be shaken. By this time, Jed was in a really bad mood.

  “What the hell are you doing in this room?”

  The man uttered a gurgling sound, which only made Jed madder.

  “Answer me, dammit!”

  The fellow choked out an incoherent “Grrmmph.”

  “What the devil does that mean?” Jed shook him again and glared down at Tacita, who had tapped him on the shoulder. She had to stretch to do it, and he would have thought that was kind of cute if he hadn’t been so peeved. “What?” he asked her roughly.

  “Er, I think you’re choking him, Mr. Hardcastle. I don’t think he could answer you if he wanted to.”

  “Oh.” Jed dropped the man, who sank into a heap of arms and legs on the floor. Jed didn’t feel sorry for him.

  “What were you doing in Miss Grantham’s cabin?”

  The man didn’t answer immediately, but lay there gagging and clutching his throat. Jed, in no mood to pamper an interloper, drew back his booted foot and was about to kick the fellow into compliance, when Tacita clutched his arm. He glowered down at her, annoyed that she’d interrupted again.

  “Don’t kick him, Mr. Hardcastle. Please don’t kick him. Let him catch his breath.”

  “Huh.”

  Since she’d asked—and since she looked scared—Jed guessed he’d comply. He didn’t want to. When he got tired like this, he got mean. His ma used to warn him about his temper. She’d made him promise to get a good night’s sleep at all times. His ma, however, hadn’t anticipated the perils inherent in guarding Miss Tacita Grantham.

  “Please?”

  Her voice was sweet and pleading, and Jed realized he was still scowling. Her dog, he noticed, was growling and watching the villain on the floor as if she was only waiting for a chance to tear his throat
out. He felt a sudden spirit of affinity with her, and realized he must really be exhausted.

  “Oh, all right.” He knew he sounded grudging. He felt grudging.

  “Thank you.”

  Jed continued to glare balefully at the Indian man. The fellow had stopped gagging by this time and merely wheezed as he struggled to his hands and knees. Although Jed guessed he wouldn’t strangle him or kick him to death, his compassion didn’t reach so far that he felt sorry for him or offered to help him to his feet.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  The man gasped.

  “Are you the bastard who tore up Miss Grantham’s room yesterday?”

  He wheezed.

  “Answer me, dammit!”

  Tacita tugged his sleeve again. “Er, Mr. Hardcastle, I think he needs another moment or two.”

  Jed transferred his glare at Tacita. Her sweet expression served to alleviate his fury a little, but not much. He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Oh, all right.”

  Tucking Rosamunda under her arm, Tacita knelt beside her fallen foe and assisted him to his feet. “Here, let me help you, sir.” She guided him to her bed.

  Immediately, the fellow sank down onto the soft mattress and buried his head in his hands.

  What really aggravated Jed—besides the fact that she’d let the bastard sit on her bed, where he had absolutely no business whatever—was that she seemed to feel some kind of compassion for him. He could tell Rosamunda shared his own sentiments, and decided that as soon as he’d questioned the trespasser, he would sleep. Any time he found himself in agreement with that animal about anything at all, it was time for a nap.

  The fellow finally managed to gasp out, “Thank you, miss.”

  “Sit here, and I’ll get you a drink of water.”

  “You are an angel of mercy, madam.”

  Jed snorted. Rosamunda made a lunge for the fellow’s wrist as Tacita let it go. Jed didn’t blame her.

  “Tut, tut, darling. I’m sure this gentleman is sorry for his misdeed.”

  Jed rolled his eyes. Rosamunda yipped.

  The man said, “Oh, yes. Yes indeed, madam. Yes, sahib. I, Virendra Karnik, am a well of sorrow about the dastardly deed I have performed.”