Page 44 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)
Fifteen
T he late afternoon sun streaming through the windows of Grand Central Station made little impression on the throng of people bent on embarking on the passenger trains.
Locomotives whistling, brakes hissing, the clatter of voices and rushing feet all combined to make an overpowering din.
In such an atmosphere of confusion, Zeke and Rory attracted little attention as they descended off the morning train from Jersey.
Her hair bound up in a kerchief, Rory wore a faded cotton dress, one of Annie’s that had shrunk but still fit Rory like sackcloth.
In appearance, Rory knew that she was unremarkable, just another weary traveler from coach class.
Zeke too was dressed with simplicity—a plain white shirt, denim trousers, his face shielded by a much-battered felt hat that Annie had once fished from the sea.
Why then did Rory feel as if everyone were staring at them?
Nervously, she ducked her head when a policeman strolled toward them.
The blue-coated officer veered aside at the last moment, lingering to trade some joke with one of the clerks at the ticket window.
Rory exhaled her breath in a tremulous sigh
“Stop looking so guilty.” Zeke’s voice rumbled close to her ear. “It’s me the coppers are after, not you.”
Linking his arm through hers, he guided her away from the platform, laughing aloud at the furtive way she made her way through the crowded station.
Rory tossed him a glance simmering with resentment.
How could he be so nonchalant about all this?
Her tension had been mounting ever since they left the security of Annie’s cottage, growing stronger as they drew closer and closer to New York.
In Zeke’s broad grin, she could see the traces of the street urchin he had once been, enjoying playing cat and mouse games with the police.
But she was on tenterhooks, afraid that Zeke risked being shot on sight if they encountered any more policemen of O’Connell’s ilk.
When she and Zeke emerged from the station onto the busy street, her heart gave an anxious thud.
But it was the same as on the train platform.
Pedestrians shoved past them, more concerned with tending to their own affairs than looking too close into the face of any stranger.
The day was warm, and Rory felt circles of perspiration forming beneath her arms. Her throat felt dry, and when a drugstore across the street caught her eye, she thought wistfully of a cherry phosphate.
“I don’t suppose you have any money left of what Anchor Annie loaned us?” she asked Zeke.
“Just enough for fare for the horsecar. And what do you mean ‘loaned?’ While you lay abed this morning, my lady, I was up earning that money, cleaning fish for that old sea hag. I’ll never be able to face a plate of mackerel again.”
Rory laughed in spite of herself and felt better for it, some of her tension easing.
“I’m glad you think it’s so funny. I probably even smell like fish.”
Zeke raised his arm, taking a cautious sniff at his sleeve.
But he smelled just fine, Rory thought, redolent with the clean tang of Annie’s soap and his own more elusive musky, masculine scent.
He looked just fine too. That weathered hat didn’t quite shadow his clean-shaven jaw, or the dark eyes, which sparkled bright and alert.
The denims, a fraction too small, hugged the taut lines of his muscular thighs.
The warmth of the day had caused him to open his shirt at the neck, revealing a healthy expanse of tanned flesh.
He seemed to possess amazing powers of recuperation.
If he still felt any discomfort from his wound or the beating he’d taken, he didn’t show it.
His shoulders squared in that familiar pugnacious manner, he appeared ready to take on the world.
She wished she felt the same, but she was weary from that long trip on the train.
She had spent most of the journey arguing with Zeke about their plan of action.
He had finally agreed to abandon his notion of confronting Charles Decker, at least long enough to see what information could be obtained from the reporter, Bill Duffy.
Zeke must have noticed the droop to her shoulders, for he chucked her under the chin with a tender smile. “Maybe you should just go home, get some rest and wait until you hear from me.”
“No, you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Rory said. Despite all his assurances, she was not sure how far she trusted Zeke to behave with due caution.
She had an awful image of him bursting into some newspaper office and causing a dreadful uproar. At the very least, he ran the risk of being recognized in a place that published his photograph so often.
“Maybe it would be better if you let me find this Duffy and talk to him,” she said.
Zeke’s scowl told her what he thought of that proposal, but she continued to insist, putting forth all her arguments.
In the end, they reached a compromise. Rory would go into the building, find Duffy and bring him to Zeke.
If the exchange became heated, if Duffy were to whistle for the police, Zeke would have a far better chance escaping if they were outside.
They had to run to catch the horse drawn trolley that would take them toward Newspaper Row, and they mounted the steps at the last possible second.
As Zeke paid the conductor the fare, Rory collapsed on the first seat.
Usually as many as twenty people crammed into the cars during peak hours.
But at this time of day, they were relatively empty.
There was no need to crowd close to the pot bellied stove in the center as she did on chillier days, so Rory remained where she was, Zeke edging beside her.
They got down again at Chambers Street and cut across City Hall Park, heading toward Newspaper Row. The park provided a peaceful oasis in the midst of the bustling city, the grass sprouting tender shoots of a spring green, the elms and poplars just starting to bud.
“You can wait on one of the benches,” she told Zeke, “and try to look inconspicuous.”
“All right,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll give you half an hour to get that jackanapes of a reporter back here.”
She nodded, preparing to rush off before Zeke could change his mind. But he seized her by the wrist.
“Wait. I forgot one thing.”
The devil’s glint in his eye should have warned her. Before she could protest, he yanked her hard into his arms.
‘For luck,” he grinned and then proceeded to kiss her, so thoroughly her kerchief became dislodged, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.
She swayed against him, her senses reeling. By the time he had done, she was glad of the support of his strong arms keeping her upright. Her face flushed, her breath coming hard.
A nursemaid wheeling a perambulator past on the walkway cast them a shocked glance.
Rory wriggled out of Zeke’s embrace. “This is not exactly what I call being inconspicuous, Mr. Morrison.”
“No, but it’s a helluva lot more fun.” His eyes were warm with the memories of all they had shared the previous night.
They had spoken little of it this morning, but always it seemed to be there between them, the remembrance of those passionate hours before dawn when she had been lost in his loving, Zeke’s demand that she marry him.
She could tell that he was thinking of that too. He traced the curve of her lips with his finger, murmuring, “Mrs. Morrison— the sound of that is beginning to appeal to me more and more.”
The trouble was it appealed to her too, and she had yet to rid herself of the doubts plaguing her. She couldn’t give him an answer last night and she wasn’t ready to do so now. She took a step back, putting more distance between herself and the seductive circle of those strong arms.
“I better be going. You stay put and behave yourself until I return.”
Whirling on her heel, she turned and fled, sensing the heat of his gaze following her. She should have been relieved to discover he had something on his mind besides vengeance, but it didn’t help to have him befuddling her when she needed her wits clear for the meeting with the reporter.
Coming out of the park, she crossed Park Row, narrowly missing being run down by a smart tilbury, the footman perched on the back so far forgetting his dignity as to shake his fist at her.
But she didn’t check her pace. The World was not conveniently located on the same block as the other dailies.
Rory was obliged to traverse several blocks, heading back toward the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge.
The building that housed Mr. Pulitzer’s prized newspaper, some twenty-seven stories of it, loomed above Rory in majestic splendor, crowned with the famous gilded cupola at the top.
Slipping inside, Rory found the place every bit as busy as Grand Central Station, reporters and copyboys rushing past, editors bellowing. From the basement below she could hear the thunder of the printing presses, so loud they seemed to make the floor vibrate beneath her feet.
It was hard to get anyone to stand still long enough to listen to her query after the whereabouts of one William Duffy, let alone give her an answer. Finally a cigar-chomping individual barking into the speaking piece of a telephone paused long enough to snap that she should go to the fifth floor.
Daunted at the prospect of climbing so many flights, Rory was relieved to discover the World equipped with an elevator. The youthful operator whisked her upward at a speed that caused a fluttering in her stomach.
Stepping out, she peered through an open door into an office full of desks and men in their shirtsleeves.
Most of them were crowded round some fast-talking salesman demonstrating the latest in typewriter machines.
She eyed the cluster of male faces dubiously, wondering which one it was she sought.
But when she mentioned Duffy’s name, she was directed to a desk in the far corner.