Page 23 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 23

J UST BEFORE L YDIA ’ S LIPS CRASHED into Abraham’s, her brain caught up to her impulse. What was she doing? The touch of his chapped lips lasted less than a second, but the feel of them branded her a hoyden.

They thrust apart at the same time. He stepped back to keep his balance, but caught the corner of the low table. Lydia flung out an arm to catch him. Instead, she whacked him across the nose as he fell.

The thud of his landing shook the floor, and for a moment she feared he’d cracked his head against the edge of the sofa. One leg draped across the table, foot dangling in the air, while the rest of his body sprawled across the rug. Watery eyes peered at her like she was a lunatic, and his hands shot to cover his nose.

Oh heavens. Had she broken it, and blood gushed already?

She dropped to her knees beside him, determined to assist like Papa might. But what should she do? Abraham didn’t need his pulse checked. By the glare he leveled at her, his heart was furiously beating. Should she check for broken bones? Perhaps a busted rib or fractured arm? No, the only thing likely to be broken on him was his nose. She reached to pry his hands away, but he averted his face so quickly he banged against the floor. A muffled word she likely didn’t want to hear escaped.

She winced with sympathetic pain. The poor man had been nothing but kind, and here she’d done with great success just as she’d promised. Blast her competitive nature. Abraham was sure to regret his offer now and condemn her to facing Mr. O’Dell alone. Perhaps it was best to make light of the situation.

“It seems I’ve knocked you off your feet.” The chuckle she meant to give came out as a choked whimper.

He sat up and released his nose with a flinch. “I’m the one who gets kissed, trips, then receives a blackened nose, and somehow you’re the one crying?”

She sob-laughed but couldn’t get any words out. It really was absurd. If anyone should be crying, it should be him. Although that felt equally laughable. Men cried, she knew, but over a kiss and being hit by a girl? Maybe if she were in pinafores and Abraham in short pants. Which actually made quite an adorable and distracting picture. He must have been devilishly cute, and probably a holy terror, if what she heard about raising boys was to be believed. Abraham, the rascal child, now an upstanding officer. What a contrast.

A smile sneaked through, and she sniffled into her handkerchief to hide it. If the man could read her mind, he’d abandon this tenuous friendship for the safety of Cincinnati’s riotous streets.

Abraham shook his head as he rose to his feet, and then offered her a hand up.

She accepted, unsure if the warmth that shot through her at the feel of his firm grip was embarrassment or pleasure. Either way, her face was sure to be the color of Marcus’s editing ink.

Once she was standing, he put more distance between them and folded his arms. “I underestimated you. A kiss and a shove, all to win a wager? How often have you pulled that stunt?”

The heat in her face blazed into an inferno. Her lips had never touched a man’s until now—not that Abraham would ever believe that after such a flippant display. Twenty-two years of saving her first kiss for a romantic encounter with the man she loved, and she’d tossed it aside to win a bet. What was wrong with her? It didn’t matter that it was Abraham, her own personal Detective Darcy. She’d conducted herself as carelessly with that gift, that blessed treasure of a first kiss, as she had with her words.

Words that must come to an end.

Thankfully, the unpleasant duty of meeting with Mr. O’Dell would serve as a distraction from that lackluster kiss.

She cleared her throat and focused on the table’s askew doily. As she slid it back into place, she asked, “Will you still go with me to break my contracts?”

“Avoiding the question does not reflect well on you. Am I to take it you’ve employed that tactic often?”

Her head jerked up. “No! You’re the first and only. I’m sorry. That did not go how I intended. It’s my stupid competitiveness. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have never—”

“Lydia. Stop. I can see your mortification. I believe you.” His voice held a nasal quality that hadn’t been there earlier.

Oh dear. His nose must be swelling. Now every time he spoke, she’d be reminded of her scandalous behavior. Even worse, she’d feel the momentary brush of their lips. How could she ever look at him again? He’d see the red and know what she was thinking.

If she did write another book, she’d turn this whole scene into a comedy. Or maybe she’d write it as a tragedy and let the heroine die of embarrassment right on the spot. She certainly wished she had.

“We’ll move forward as if nothing happened.” His eyes dropped to her lips, then immediately darted to the door. “I am still your friend, and I will go with you.”

“Thank you. We had better leave before I lose my courage.” Or did something else to jeopardize their friendship.

“I’ll be right by your side.” He pressed a guiding hand to the small of her back, then seemed to think better of it. His hand dropped like a boulder off a cliff. By the speed of his stride to enter the foyer ahead of her, his shoes had caught fire.

She shook her head. He’d be right by her side, eh? More like scurrying out of reach so she couldn’t pounce on him again. Moving forward like nothing happened must have a different meaning for him than her.

He was almost outside when she caught up to him.

Placing the half-closed door as a barrier between them, he directed her to stay inside until the carriage pulled up. “I’m going to search the grounds for any sign that Poe is watching.”

His exit felt like a retreat as the door shut nearly on her nose.

She parted the curtains wide enough to peer out with one eye.

Abraham stared skyward as if praying or, more likely, complaining to God about her. After a moment, he slapped his hat against his leg, repositioned it on his head, and strode out of view.

This was going to be a long and awkward ride to O’Dell’s.

Twenty minutes later, Lydia burst from the coffin-like carriage into the glorious fresh air in front of the bank. Who would have ever thought she’d consider the repugnant summer smells of horse droppings, urine, and factory smoke pleasant? She waited until Abraham turned to give the driver instructions before gasping, then drawing in slow, deep, clearing breaths.

She’d been right about the ride being long and awkward, but she had no idea it would be because of Abraham’s … unique scent. When he’d sat diagonally from her, she’d believed he wanted to put distance between him and her potential leap across the seat to kiss him.

Then the minutes passed.

Hot, stagnant air captured the truth and made it more potent with each passing street. She’d discreetly coughed and then shifted to sipping breaths. When her eyes began to water, she’d dabbed at them with her scented handkerchief and prayed he assumed she was still upset over the knocking-him-off-his-feet stunt. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer an explanation. They’d spent the entire ride staring silently in opposite directions at the closed curtains.

Never in her life had she been so glad to exit a carriage—and she’d pulled off many escapades where that had been welcomed. The unpleasantness of the city air returned, abandoning its brief victory of being considered fresh. Still, it was a relief to breathe normally. Never again would she smell Florida Water Cologne without gagging. If ever she reached the point of giving Abraham gifts, the first one would be a new cologne.

After one final cleansing breath, she focused on the imposing stone monstrosity in front of her. She’d chosen the bank because of its proximity to O’Dell Publishing—a blessing for more than one reason should she be able to convince Abraham to walk rather than ride the remaining distance.

She smelled Abraham before she felt his touch on her arm.

“Stay close. The closed carriage is drawing too much attention,” he mumbled. “We should have taken an open-air hack.”

On that note she could agree, but most likely not for the same reason as his.

He offered his arm and nodded toward the entrance. “Shall we?”

Her eyes slid to the decorative wood doors, and her chest constricted. The one benefit to Abraham’s odor was she’d been too focused on not smelling it to think about her dilemma. But here it was. The beginning of the end. The climax of her story. Except she was the villain, and hers would not be a happy ending.

Together they walked through the busy foyer and selected the shortest line. Abraham stood rigidly next to her, inspecting the room as if searching for danger. Which, likely, he was, and he should. Only yesterday had the Keatons tried to abduct her. She shivered against the memory but immediately suppressed the shiver, and the memory, when Abraham’s attention snapped to her.

He arched a brow in silent question.

“I’m fine.”

His doubtful gaze lingered on hers for several beats, then returned to its vigilant watch. “I’m right here. No one is going to hurt you or take you from me.”

His words, accompanied by a reassuring tightening of his linked arm, were worth a swoon. Detective Darcy needed a story and a girl of his own—a heroine just like her to keep him on his toes and provide many opportunities for danger and adventure.

Her heart pinched, and her soaring thoughts crashed. She would not be the one to write those stories. She meant what she’d promised God. She’d do what He wanted, even if that meant she never wrote again.

“Next.”

Lydia stepped to the window and cast a sidelong glance at Abraham. Papa had signed for her to open the bank account, but not even he knew how much she’d tucked away between her thirteen romance and nine mystery novels’ payments. “I’d like to withdraw three hundred and forty dollars in large bills, please.”

She couldn’t miss the surprise on Abraham’s face when the cashier slid the money and a receipt with her remaining balance through the opening in the wire wickerwork grate. Even after such a large withdrawal, she had over two thousand dollars to her name. With no real expenses, she’d been able to save most of what she earned. She’d dreamed of surprising her future husband with it, so they could buy a house somewhere between her parents’ and Theresa’s. Her account wouldn’t grow after today, but it would still suffice for at least a modest home.

Lydia stepped aside, separated the money into two folded stacks, and tucked them into her reticule. She delayed facing Abraham’s unspoken response to her wealth by playing with the purse strings. “It’s the advance for two books as well as interest. I know Mr. O’Dell well enough to be prepared for his demands.”

“Come along. That sum alone is enough to make someone target you.” He guided her toward the side exit.

Not two steps later, a familiar voice spoke from behind them. “I see the killing business pays well.”

Lydia swung around to face Mr. Clemens and a companion, who eagerly pulled out a notebook and pencil.

“Put that away, Egleston. This story’s mine.” Mr. Clemens appraised her like one might a roast at the butcher’s.

Her mouth dried at the hunger she saw there. Whether Billy Poe or not, the man’s ambition scared her more than the tiger at Adam Beadle’s circus. Abraham pulled her closer to himself, and she scooted until his strong frame supported her whole side. Maybe his scent would transfer to her and force Mr. Clemens outside.

“Not this time. I need the story more than you do.” His companion cut in front of him.

“You steal this one, and I’ll ensure Josephine knows that you borrowed money from me to pay your gambling debts.”

“Committing blackmail in front of an officer, Clemens? I thought you were smarter than that.” Abraham reached into his coat as if fishing for his handcuffs.

Mr. Clemens raised his hands in surrender. “Egleston, the story’s yours.”

The man smiled and immediately scratched out a few lines on his notepad. “So, Miss Pelton, have you discarded Billy Poe’s affections for another?” He eyed Abraham’s proximity to her.

Mr. Clemens scowled. “Must have, if she’s insisting on standing that close to a man who smells like he belongs in a morgue.”

Lydia lifted her chin. If she was going to be in the newspapers, she would provide information for her benefit. “Detective Hall is escorting me for the sake of protection. I am on my way to break my contract with Mr. O’Dell. There will be no more Billy Poe novels.”

“What?” Mr. Clemens’s voice echoed off the stone walls.

“This is marvelous! I’m finally going to undercut you with a story and win a spot on the front page.” Mr. Egleston scribbled furiously. “Why the change of heart?”

“The Billy Poe I created is not the brute who claims his persona. I can no longer, in good conscience, write stories that twist justice into vengeance.”

“Some of those men deserved their deaths.” Mr. Clemens stepped forward.

Abraham shifted her behind himself, but she peeked her head around to continue talking.

“It is not our place to serve as judge, jury, and executioner. We must abide by the decision of those God has placed in authority, even if we don’t agree. He has His reasons.”

“I’d like to see if you still hold that opinion when a crime has been committed against you.” Hostile intent burned from Clemens’s eyes, and the hair on the back of Lydia’s neck lifted.

Lydia ducked back behind Abraham and grasped his jacket. Best to leave the situation to an officer of the law.

“That is enough. Egleston, you’ve got your story. Clemens, remove yourself from the premises or be charged with disorderly conduct.” This time, Abraham really did remove his cuffs from his coat—their clinking sounded as threatening as his words.

“I haven’t done anything to warrant that, and you know it.”

The way Abraham leaned forward, Mr. Clemens must have done the same. She peered around the room, and patrons observed with open curiosity. Whispers and fingers pointed at her indicated she was no longer a nameless customer. She and Abraham needed to leave before someone other than the reporters decided to approach them.

Egleston gushed over the display. “Won’t this be a juicy piece to add to my story. You squaring off with her new lover. Excellent.”

“I am not her lover.” Abraham’s words were sharp and unyielding. “And I’ll not have you slander her or my reputations.”

“Then I’ll use the term beau . People can make of it what they want. All that matters is, Poe’s lady love has dropped him and his books.” Egleston snapped his notebook closed and darted out the door.

This was turning into a disaster.

“You’re going to regret this outing, Hall. And Miss Pelton?” Mr. Clemens stepped closer, and Abraham immediately thrust a distancing hand to his chest. “Don’t think you’re safe from Poe just because he declared his ardor. He’s a dangerous man, and regardless of your choices, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Mr. Clemens stormed out of the bank, leaving a wake of whispers and gawking.

Abraham spun toward the exit and hastened them out the door. Though her legs trembled, she followed him into the carriage. After what had happened inside, she didn’t want to walk anywhere. Being trapped with a man who smelled like a perfumed corpse was better than becoming one.