Page 36 of This Haunted Heart

“I’ve left places in worse shape,” I admitted.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I bet you have.”

I started to grin, then remembered I was still angry with him, and the urge died on my lips. I crossed my arms over my chest. “You owe me $70.00 for last night and this morning. I’ve decided to add a surcharge to our tradeagreement because you’re a jackass.”

“Only seventy?” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “You’re a steal.”

I glowered at him. My glaring increased as he pulled bills out of the lapel of his waistcoat and made a show of counting out the money.

“Here you are,” he said.

“Isn’t thatmycash?” I grumped.

“It is, but if you don’t want it . . .” He started to tuck it away.

I snatched it from him. Lifting my skirts so they draped strategically, I tucked the bills in my garter belt beside the letter I still had hidden there. The plot I had quickly abandoned at the inn was starting to feel like a decent idea again.

Utrecht and Finley deserved each other.

The first hour passed in near silence. Finley and I snoozed on and off. When I thought he was sleeping soundly, I nudged his foot with mine to test how alert he was. He didn’t move. I found the outline of a holster for a pocket pistol on his ankle.

I reached for the lapel of his waistcoat.

“Don’t even think about it, hellcat,” he murmured, eyes shut, top hat pulled down to shadow his face.

Finley’s trunk came loose on the roof. It wasn’t heavy enough anymore to stay put properly. One of the straps flopped against the side of the coach, alerting us. He called out, and Mr. Mazibuko slowed his team to a halt. The reinsman offered to help, but Finley insisted he could manage the problem quickly.

I let myself out to stretch my legs and chat with Mr. Mazibuko. I wanted to hear more about his cross-country travels.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Finley?” he asked, removing hisderby from his head as I rounded the stage.

“Just stretching my legs,” I said.

Mr. Mazibuko leaned down and dropped his voice. “Are youtrulyall right, ma’am? Do you need help?”

I peered around the coach to double-check that Finley remained busy with the trunk before turning back to him. “Why do you think I need help, Mr. Mazibuko? Did I say something strange earlier?”

He cleared his throat. “You’re still wearing your dressing gown, ma’am.”

“Ah.” I glanced down at myself and pulled my shawl tighter. “Right . . . That is rather telling, isn’t it?”

“Afraid so. And your husband—I mean no offense—but he only seems regular when he’s looking elsewhere. When Mr. Finley’s eyes are on you, he’s something irregular.”

I frowned. “Irregular how?”

“Like a man possessed,” he said quietly.

I sucked in a breath. I’d caught Finley staring at me more than once with an intensity of emotion that couldn’t be properly quantified. It stirred within me a trouble-addicted thrill-lust I tried hard to smother. “I have some money, if—”

“No, ma’am,” he said softly. “Keep your money. You’re going to need it. Just let me help you.”

I stared up at him in wonder, feeling a little lost. This was agoodman. A truly decent soul who had taken the time to stop and look and see that I needed assistance but could not say so.

And he wanted to help me for nothing in return.

Helpme.

That was as mythical and majestic a concept to me as a unicorn. There were good men in the world. I knew that conceptually there had to be some out there running aboutfar, far away from the likes of me. I was old enough to know I had courted my own bad luck in that department. When one chases their heart blindly and goes looking for trouble the way I have, one often finds exactly that.

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