The crowded stagecoach was another new experience for Amanda. She thought she rather liked it. Well, except for the stifling heat and the cramped quarters and more dust than she’d ever dreamed existed, all of which combined to intensify the now cloying scent of vanilla that she had tried so hard to rub off at the depot after being compared to bakery goods.
She and Marcus—he’d introduced himself at last, saying, “Well, Miss Alice Green, I go by Marcus Quicksilver"—had been the last ones to board the stage, and as a consequence they hadn’t been able to sit together, which irritated Amanda at first, but now was pleasing her enormously, because it allowed her to look long and hard at the handsome man who had offered her his assistance, albeit grudgingly. Well, she could hardly expect eastern gallantry from such a rugged-looking, gunbeltwearing, unshaven westerner, she reminded herself.
The minute they settled into their opposite seats, Marcus had tipped his hat down and, to all appearances, fallen fast asleep. Amanda perused what she could see of his face—the dark whiskers shadowing his cheeks and jaw, the hard curve of his mouth, which hardly slackened in sleep, the sculpted tip of his nose. Her gaze kept drifting lower, to the place where the button was missing on his chambray shirt, where a hint of soft, dark hair showed through the open placket between the edges of his leather vest.
Each time she peeked, a little curl of longing unfurled in the pit of her stomach. That, too, was a sensation she’d never felt before, but then, she’d never seen a man’s bare chest before, either. She wondered if Angus was similarly furry, and rather hoped so. Not that it mattered. Not one whit. Only…
“Sorry if I’m crowding you, honey. It’s these wide shoulders of mine, you know. They don’t make coaches for fellas built like me.”
Amanda smiled weakly at the man sitting to her right. Sitting on her right was really a much better description, considering that the large man had a good portion of her skirt beneath him. She edged a bit closer to the window on her left, and could have sworn the man followed her over, crunching additional yardage of her skirt beneath him as he moved.
“I go by train ordinarily,” he said—as if she had inquired. “More room for my samples and such. I’m a salesman, you know. Ladies’ undergarments.” A wet laugh burbled up in his throat. “Unmentionables, you know.”
Amanda glanced sideways at her seatmate, whose breath smelled of peppermint and onions, an altogether unpleasant mixture, particularly when combined with her own vanilla scent. A pair of muttonchop whiskers flourished on the man’s cheeks. His plaid suit and paisley vest could have clothed a small family, with enough fabric left over to drape and swag an end table. She offered the coolest of smiles, along with a polite little hum, to acknowledge that she’d heard him and to discourage any further mention of unmentionables.
“Yeah,” he said, obviously indifferent to her chilly response. “Been in this business going on five years now. The name’s Linus Dobson.” He stuck out a huge, hammy hand. “Glad to make your acquaintance.” Then he winked as he added in a decidedly smarmy tone, “And may I say you smell ever so good, honey?”
Unwilling to be rude, especially in such close quarters, Amanda clasped his hand. It was flabby and damp as suet. “How do you do?”
He smiled broadly. “I do all right, if I do say so myself. So. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a pretty girl like yourself doing traveling all alone? Visiting relatives, are you?”
“Well, no. Actually, I’m…” Extracting her hand from his with a determined tug, Amanda cast about in her brain, desperate for a reply. What was she doing traveling alone, other than running away? His guess, she concluded, was as good as any she might invent for herself, so she nodded and said, “Yes, I am visiting relatives, as a matter of fact. A sister and brother-in-law and five nieces and nephews. In… um… Wyoming.”
“Pretty country, Wyoming. I’ve been there quite a bit myself. Why, given the opportunity, I bet I could show you some sights that’d be like none you’d ever seen before.” He wedged his elbow into her rib cage then, adding, “Snap your garters, for sure, little lady.”
“My, my.” It would have been nice to have a book in which to bury her nose, Amanda thought, but since she didn’t, and since there was no entertainment other than staring at Marcus Quicksilver’s chest, she decided to indulge her hammy companion. She’d had few opportunities to converse with members of the opposite sex, much less to twit one of them. In her estimation, Linus Dobson could do with a bit of twitting.
She smiled and batted her eyes at him. “My goodness. Snap my garters, would they?”
“Yes, indeedy. Why, honey, you might think you’ve seen some natural wonders back east, but I’m here to tell you—”
He didn’t get a chance to tell her anything right then, because the stage lurched to a squealing, bone-rattling standstill.
“Stretch stop!” the driver shouted. “Everybody out who’s getting out. Five minutes you got, and not one second more.”
“Well, I’m for that,” the big salesman said as he reached across Amanda’s lap to open the door. “Pardon me, honey.” He stepped on her skirt and both of her feet before he squeezed himself out of the coach, then he turned and held out his meaty hands. “Let’s go, honey. Here. Let me help you.”
“Everybody out!” the driver called again, more insistently this time. Gracious, Amanda would have thought the vehicle was on fire, the way the man was yelling.
By now the other passengers had all obediently exited the coach through the opposite door. All but one. Marcus Quicksilver was still napping under the brim of his hat, and he didn’t even flinch when the driver banged on the sidewalls and bellowed another warning. “Four minutes now. Everybody out. Time’s a-wasting, and we ain’t stopping again till Sidney.”
Amanda sighed, deciding if she didn’t exit the coach immediately, the driver might be tempted to pull her out by the scruff of her neck. She levered herself up toward the open door, and before she could say, “No, thank you. I can manage on my own,” to the salesman, he had already clasped his big hands around her rib cage, with his sausagelike thumbs suspiciously close to her breasts.
“There you go, little lady.” He set her down on the ground, but didn’t let her go until he’d given her a lusty ten-fingered squeeze. “Well, if you’ll pardon me now, I believe I’ll just walk a ways and give the old limbs a good stretching.”
“Yes. Of course.” Good riddance. Amanda gave her bodice a tug and smoothed her hands across her wrinkled skirt. What a sight she must be, looking rather like a waffle now, while smelling like a cake.
“Don’t waste your time,” came a deep voice from behind her. “That skirt’s going to look a whole lot worse before it looks any better.”
She whirled around to see Marcus Quicksilver leaning against the side of the coach, eyeing her rather peculiarly before he bent and reached to pluck a weed from the side of the road.
“On the other hand, Miss Alice Green,” he drawled, “you could always have your fat friend sit on your skirt and get yourself a real good pressing.”
Marcus stuck the blade of grass between his teeth, irritated with himself because he was irritated with her. How Amanda Grenville carried on with fellow passengers—men in particular—shouldn’t have mattered to him one bit, as long as she didn’t give away her identity. How she cozied up to a seatmate or what she said shouldn’t have bothered Marcus. But it did. It irked him no end that she’d allow some peddler—some itinerant buffoon like that Dobson— to make advances. Didn’t she realize there would be consequences to her flirtatious behavior? Didn’t she care?
He