“Could we really do it? Should we really do it?” she whispered.
“Yes!” Deirdre and Sadie said in unison.
The bubbling excitement building within her threatened to boil away her reservations. Her friends’ eager faces fed the latter rather than the prior. Chin tucked, Deirdre peered at her from beneath her dark eyebrows.
“We try it, if it doesn’t work out, we come back. You said yourself that Ashlinn is leaving you the house here in New York, along with Michael’s inheritance. You have nothing to lose save for the experience of a lifetime,” she said.
Letting out a long breath that eased the pressure from her corset, she nodded. “All right. We’ll try it.”
Squeals of delight pierced her ears as her friends hopped about like young lasses and took turns embracing her.
“We must celebrate!” Deirdre said.
“Yes, we must!” Sadie agreed.
Eyes going to the shop door to their left, Catriona smiled. “I’ll buy the wine. ’Tis only appropriate that we do so with a special bottle.”
Sadie looped an arm through Deirdre’s. “We’ll pick up the cheese. There’s a shop just down the block that has the finest in all of New York,” Sadie said.
Deirdre nodded to her. “Excellent plan. We’ll meet you back here in a few moments,” she told Catriona.
With a nod and a wave, Catriona began to ascend the stairs to the shop. Deirdre’s voice rang out, making her turn her head back in their direction. “Red or white?”
“Red,” she called back as she kept climbing.
Foot halfway up the next step, she turned her head back around, and smacked into an unyielding body. The momentum of the person descending the stairs redirected her own, and she began to topple backward. A pair of striking green eyes widened within a face boasting fine cheekbones and a strong jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week. She had just enough time to fret over a handsome man—rugged though he was—seeing her tumbled to her arse, before his hand dashed out and grabbed hers. One moment she was falling, the next she spun around and landed in strong arms.
Pressed up against a firm chest as she was, she could scarcely draw enough breath to cry out. Arms that bulged with muscles barely contained within a simple cotton shirt engulfed her. The scents of lavender soap mingled pleasantly with the subtle musk of man.
“Easy there, ma’am. The path ahead is more important than the one behind,” a deep voice thick with a brogue that didn’t quite seem all Irish resonated from the chest against hers.
Finding her balance, she pushed away from the hard planes of muscle, freeing herself from arms that tugged with a slight reluctance to release her. She had to crane her neck back to take in all of the man who towered over her, and not because he was a few steps up from her like she had thought. He stood on the same step she did, he was just that tall. Cotton breeches filled out quite nicely—she hated to admit—went along with the simple shirt and an ankle-length leather duster. The outfit created the picture of a rugged man who looked like he belonged out West rather than in downtown New York.
Her cheeks heated as she realized he had said something, and she couldn’t recall for the life of her what it had been.
One of his brows rose into dark brown hair that hadn’t seen a barber’s scissors for at least a year, maybe longer. The motion made his green eyes all the more alluring, as if it increased their magnetism.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked.
He didn’t even attempt to hide his brogue. Either he wasn’t from New York, or he had not undergone years of lessons to strip the Irish from his voice. Either way, his lack of concern over the matter both incensed and intrigued her—though she would never admit the latter to anyone save herself. And to speak to her with such familiarity, well it simply wasn’t done. Nor did it help that he used her old nickname. Hearing it reminded her of all the things she no longer was. And those reminders hurt.
Deep laughter rumbled from him when she didn’t answer. Straightening her shawl, she took a step back from him, skirt swishing against the steps as she did so. The material caught beneath her heel and she began to slip. His hand shot out and gripped her elbow, steadying her. The warmth of his hand on her arm felt wonderful. Sensations she hadn’t felt in years began to stir deep in her bosom. They were things she hadn’t ever wanted to feel again. Her judgment of men’s character, her attraction to them, couldn’t be trusted. Eyes narrowing, she tugged free of him.
“That is twice you have put your hands on me, sir. Such a thing is quite improper and I will thank you not to do it again,” she huffed.
A corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked grin that caused things low in her body to betray her and tighten. “But if I have to do it again to save you from falling, again, your thanks will then be for naught,” he teased.
Her brow furrowed so deeply she could see the carefully shaped hairs of it. Such a look would cause wrinkles, her mum would say, yet at the moment she didn’t care. “I shall forgive you since you are not from around here, and clearly do not know the rules of proper society.”
The man tucked the package he was carrying under his arm and fixed her with an amused look. “You should instead thank me for not letting you fall on your arse, twice.”
Mouth dropping open, she could only watch mutely as he gave her an exaggerated bow, turned, and strode down the steps. Her gaze remained riveted upon him. The leather duster billowed out around him, sending his leather and soap scent to her on the breeze. An arse of a man simply should not smell so good or have the ability to make such a simple outfit look so appealing. Shaking off such thoughts, she lifted her head and strode up the stairs, determined not to allow the frustrating encounter to ruin her good mood. She had a bottle of wine to buy and a change of destiny to celebrate.
Chapter 3
Two days later, the spunky redhead Fergusson had collided with on the stairs before Bailey’s Spirits still filled his thoughts. The way her cheeks had flushed as red as her hair, the look of indignation that had filled her ultra-blue eyes, and those curves, oh those curves… It should have been enough that she was clothed in all the finery that marked her as a lady of high society to banish her from his mind. But the fine silk and lace had framed her generous bosom oh so nicely. Though he hated himself a bit for it, he couldn’t help but hope he’d run into her on the streets of New York again. Much to his dismay—and relief—he didn’t.
One more thing to attend to and his business in New York was finished for the year. Bottle of wine in hand, he stopped at the door to his friends’ place and rapped soundly upon it. Rain began to beat down on him, stripping some of the heat from the early June evening. The door opened to a lovely young woman in a yellow dress that beautifully set off skin the hue of mahogany oiled to a dark finish. He inclined his head in a slight bow and smiled.
“Hello, miss. I am Corporal Fergusson. Mr. and Mrs. MacBranain are expecting me,” he said.
The woman smiled and stepped aside. “They are indeed. Please, do come in, Mr. Fergusson.”
Just a hint of an accent touched her words, marking her as one who had been born in the north rather than fled here for freedom before the war. While it wasn’t completely uncommon for a Negro to be a house servant, most of those in New York high society that he knew used Irish servants. A nurse friend of Ashlinn’s perhaps. But then, she didn’t have that haunted look those who had seen battle carried with them.
“Thank you, miss.”
His wet boots clunked against the marble floor as he stepped inside the foyer, leaving tracks of mud and droplets of water behind.
“I apologize for the mess, miss. ’Tis raining with a vengeance out there,” he said.
The