Page 2 of Calling on the Matchmaker
A moment later the horses were gone, and the green hackney wheels were rolling past. The low underbelly of the vehicle box slipped over them, brushing close to her rescuer’s back so that he flattened himself against her even further.
Thankfully she had a slender frame and was on the smaller size of the average woman. Even so, she did her part to mold against the street, attempting to keep the man from getting hurt.
As the shadows of the hackney gave way to the cloudy day above them, the man lifted his head and scanned the street as though gauging whether he needed to protect her from any other oncoming traffic.
Apparently seeing no immediate threat, his body relaxed against hers, and he returned his attention to her. “How do you fare?”
Finola found herself peering up into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. Deep set, they crinkled at the corners with concern, and his fair brows bunched together above a fine, narrow nose. His hat had been knocked off, and his toasted blond hair fell across his forehead in disarray.
His gaze held hers intently, as though he wouldn’t be satisfied until she reassured him she was fine. She did a quick mental assessment of her limbs, wiggling her fingers and toes simultaneously. Nothing seemed to be missing or broken. “I think I’m alright.”
He glanced again over his shoulder and then down the street in the opposite direction. The wagons all around them had come to a standstill.
Too little, too late.
As if thinking the same, her rescuer homed in on the hackney,the only vehicle still in motion, slogging away at the same careless pace, as if it made an everyday occurrence of running over pedestrians.
He frowned, his square jaw hardening. The angular edges were covered in a light brown layer of stubble. Though his expression was serious, she was suddenly aware of just how handsome he was.
“Saint Riley to the rescue again!” someone shouted.
Saint Riley? Riley Rafferty hailed as Saint Riley of the Kerry Patch?
She’d never personally met him. But the Irish community in St. Louis had always been small enough—at least until recent years—that she knew of almost everyone, saw almost everyone at one point or another at a parade or mass or a wedding or a funeral. So of course she’d seen Riley Rafferty from time to time over her twenty-three years.
But he was several years older and wasn’t in any of her family’s social groups. She’d never given him a second thought until last autumn when she’d witnessed him dive into the Mississippi and rescue a drowning steamboat deckhand.
Over the past four months since that rescue, she’d observed him on occasion from a distance and had marveled like everyone else over his daring deeds.
And now, here he was.
Her breath snagged in her chest, this time not out of fear of being crushed by an oncoming conveyance. No, this time, she was breathless because the heroic Riley Rafferty had saved her life.
Her body awoke to the realization that his full length was covering her—a broad chest, muscular torso, thick arms, and long legs. She knew from watching his dripping-wet body emerge from the river that he was a strong man with muscles in every conceivable place. He had the kind of body that could make a nun blush.
Even so, his presence wasn’t heavy or suffocating. Instead, she felt safe, as though the world had stopped and nothing or no one could hurt her, not as long as Riley was with her. The feeling of security was odd, one she hadn’t felt in many years.
“Finola Shanahan!” The next shout was Madigan’s from above her. “What am I going to do with you?”
At the mention of her name, Riley’s brows arched, and his eyes lightened a wee bit to a midnight blue. Did he recognize her?
More likely he recognized her family’s name. Her da was one of the most prominent men of St. Louis. And one of the wealthiest.
Riley seemed to study her more carefully, his gaze slowing as he passed over the freckles on her nose and cheeks.
Of course, there were other Irish Shanahans in St. Louis, and he might not realize she was the oldest daughter of the iron magnate James Shanahan, sole owner of Shanahan Iron Works.
“You’re sure you’re not hurt, Sister?” Riley’s eyes, full of questions, met hers.
Sister? Did he think she was a nun? She supposed the confusion was only natural since she was clothed in the habit. Should she correct him?
“Come on with you now, Finola.” Madigan thrust a hand toward her.
A part of her wanted to clear up Riley’s mistake in thinking she was a nun. But what was the point in doing so? She had every intention of joining the Sisters of Charity ... just as soon as she could convince her parents to allow it.
First, she had to thwart their newest plan to use the matchmaker to arrange her marriage. Once she foiled their efforts, they’d surely agree that after so many failed matches, the only bride she was suited to become was a bride of Christ.
At the sight of Madigan’s outstretched hand, Riley started to push away. She had the urge to grab him and prevent himfrom leaving her. The need was completely irrational. This man was a stranger. And she couldn’t remain in the middle of busy Broadway any longer than she already had.
