Chapter 1: Part Two
his two companions gathered in a tight semicircle around her.
"Good evening," she managed to reply.
"You alone?" another asked. He had slumped shoulders and watery eyes.
"No," Olivia answered.
"I don't see nobody else," said the third man, a collection of knobby joints. He looked around slowly and insolently
before letting his eyes rove over her with the same disrespect.
"My carriage will be here any minute," she said with more conviction than she felt.
"It ain't here yet," said Hard Face, "so we got a few minutes to talk."
"I don't see how we have anything to talk about." Olivia tried to keep her voice steady, as though she were merely
telling Cook to order a roast today but no chops, thank you. As she did so, she began to edge away from the men. She
didn't know what they wanted but it wouldn't be good. And she did not intend to stand around and let them threaten
her.
"I think we got a lot to talk about," Slump Shoulders answered. He moved faster than he looked, and grabbed hold
of her arm. Shocked, Olivia dropped her novel. It made a quiet plop onto the pavement.
The pressure of his fingers on her made Olivia's insides roil with disgust. "Let go of me!"
"Not until we deliver our message," Hard Face said. "The man what gave us our marching orders, he ain't too
pleased about you staying on here."
"He means the brewery," Knobby explained.
"And he wants you to reconsider his offer," Hard Face continued. "Otherwise, things could get kinda ugly."
An even uglier realization dawned. "George Pryce sent you," Olivia said, horrified.
"We didn't mention no names," Slump Shoulders said.
"But I know exactly who you are talking about," Olivia snapped. Anger, fast and unchecked, began to flood through
her. She could feel herself begin to shake with it. "And you can go right back and tell him to stuff his offer and his
hired toughs right up his overbred bum! Now let go of me." Olivia tried to snatch her arm away, but Slump Shoulders
held her fast. She swung her reticule and it connected with Knobby's face, then burst open and scattered coins in the
street.
Hard Face decided it was time to make a play and he lunged for her. A strangled scream tore from her throat as she
braced for impact, extending her free hand like a claw. She was prepared to fight as hard as she was able, use any
means available to her to gain some kind of advantage. But before Hard Face reached her, a dark shape intercepted him,
throwing him to the ground with a thud. Stunned by this new development, Slump Shoulders released her.
Both Olivia and the other men watched in astonished surprise as Hard Face struggled on the rough pavement with
another person—someone whom no one had seen or heard approaching. They wrestled back and forth until the
newcomer sat up a bit and began punching Olivia's would-be assailant with vicious accuracy and ability.
"The lady don't want your company," he said between punches, and Olivia felt her heart stop. He spoke in the
distinctive flat drawl of an American. She'd met a few businessmen from Boston and New York and their wives when
her husband was alive, but unless she was wrong, this man, her protector, wasn't from Boston, but from the West.
Her assailant's companions managed to rouse themselves from their shock and launched themselves at the
American. Olivia thought for certain that the odds would be too great for him, but she heard him say with a laugh,
"Come to join the party, huh, boys?" Good lord, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
The way he fought, it did seem like a game. She couldn’t tell much about the American—he was wearing a long
duster coat and, yes, she realized with a bubble of hysterical glee, a Stetson—but he seemed much bigger and solid than
Pryce's toughs. He punched Knobby in the nose and the fellow tumbled over backwards, howling and clutching his
face.
"Damn English nose," the American chuckled. "Made out of pure deadwood."
Slump Shoulders charged, but the American landed an elbow in his stomach. When the man bent over in pain, the
American landed a solid uppercut to his jaw and laid him out flat.
"And you got a belly like an Arkansas sow," the American added, grinning.
Hard Face unsteadily regained his feet and tried to feint at his opponent, but the American had size and speed to his
advantage. Neatly sidestepping the man, he stuck out a boot and tripped him. Hard Face's head made a thump on the
ground.
The American swung about, fists ready, but no one stood to meet his challenge. "Don't quit now, boys," he said,
still laughing. "I'm just gettin' my juices flowin'."
"We don't want no more of your juices," groaned the knobby man.
Olivia wasn't certain, but she thought the American looked disappointed.
"Then y'all better apologize to the lady," he said.
A chorus of moaned Sorry’s rose up from the street.
"I don't want your apologies," Olivia said. She was still jittery with rage, and it strained her voice. "I want you to
deliver a message of my own. Tell Pryce that I won't stand for his bullying. Tell him my answer is no, and that's final."
"Now get the hell out of here," the American commanded, "before I hog tie and brand your sorry asses."
Muttering and swearing, the men gathered themselves together and slumped away, arms around each other's
shoulders for support.
The American quickly turned to her. He had such a zeal and talent for fighting, she nearly expected those powerful
fists of his to swing at her, as well. "You okay, ma'am?" he asked instead, his voice now low and concerned. It was
such an abrupt transformation, he had become another man. What a puzzle. She still couldn’t see much of his face,
which was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat and hidden behind an enormous mustache, but he loomed over her by
at least a half a head. She wished she could see his eyes, yet somehow she could feel them on her, palpable and alert.
"I think so," she managed, still reeling from the odd turn of events. Olivia struggled with the peculiar desire to wrap
her arms around him, this cheerfully bloodthirsty American who was as gentle as a wolfhound by the fire.
"You know those boys?"
Olivia's mouth thinned wryly. "I've never met them before, but I know who sent them."
"I bet they'll all think twice before tangling with you again."
"It was you who deserve the credit. Thank you."
He tugged on the brim of his hat. "Anything for a lady." She sensed those eyes of his on her, warm and assessing,
taking in the details of her clothing, her face, even the ridiculous hat the modiste had insisted was the latest rage in Paris,
and an answering flush began to spread through her body. His look felt completely different from the violating leers of
the toughs. It was both gentlemanly and uncivilized. "You are a lady, ain't you? I was startin' to think that maybe all the
talk of fine English manners was nothin' but a dry wind blowing from the south."
A little laugh jumped up from her belly. This man had a very colorful way of speaking, but she liked it, much more
than the empty bubbles of conversation provided by the gentlemen of her acquaintance.
"Some may call me a lady," Olivia answered; then, because he was so candid, she could not help but add, "although
sometimes I am not sure what that really means."
"Believe me, ma'am," the American said with gravity, "I ain't never met a real lady 'til I met you." His words slid
together, his Western drawl, a combination of dark whiskey and honey.
"Thank you," Olivia said again, blushing. She had heard greater compliments, of course—ornate phrases covered in
gilding and polished until they took on the sharp brightness of a blade—but it was this American's simple statement that
suddenly gave her an intense rush of pleasure unlike anything she had experienced before. Perhaps because it had been
so honestly rendered, and by a man who probably didn’t give compliments very often. He looked too rough, too rangy
and lean for such nonsense. But it didn't feel much like nonsense to Olivia right then.
The American suddenly narrowed the space between them by reaching down and picking up her discarded novel.
She took an involuntary step backwards. "This yours?"
Olivia looked down at the book in his large, calloused hand. Its yellow paper cover looked faintly ridiculous
contrasted with the foggy industrial streets of Wandsworth, and infinitely fragile and transitory compared with the
weathered strength of his hand. Across the front of the novel was the title, as well as an illustration of a maiden tied to a
post with a cowboy riding to her rescue, guns drawn and ready for action. The cowboy on the cover wore a long
duster coat, a Stetson, and sported a giant, untamed mustache. Olivia looked back and forth between the cover and the
man now holding the book and felt herself grow hot and shivery at the same time.
He's a cowboy.
"I...I..." she heard herself stutter.
He peered closer, and for the first time, Olivia saw his eyes. They were a bright, azure blue, the blue of Montana
skies, the Rio Grande reflecting the Texas sun, and any number of places she had only read about but never seen. Until
now. Slowly, she took in the details of him. His hat was a battered tan Stetson, stained from exposure to the elements,
with a braided leather hatband, its brim wide enough to shield him from the sun and rain. His long brown canvas coat
looked equally worn, its bright blanket liner patched in places. At his neck, he had knotted a red kerchief. He also wore
a shirt of soft blue cotton flannel with horn buttons, and a plain black vest with pockets. She sensed, rather than saw,
that he filled his clothes with lean, hard muscle, the kind gained from honest work under hard conditions rather than an
expensive gymnasium or useless sport.
Olivia couldn’t help it...her gaze trailed lower.
"Where's your gun?" she managed to ask.
"My what?" He looked down. "It's in my room. Didn't think I'd be needin' it. I thought England was supposed to
be civilized."
He had a gun. A gunbelt. Oh, my.
"You sure you're all right?" he asked, a crease appearing between his brows. She saw his other hand come up, as if
he meant to touch her face, but he stopped himself and let his hand drop to his side. She wanted to tell him it was all
right, even though it wasn't, but she was pierced with a powerful longing to feel the rough hitch of his skin against hers,
sliding down the smooth curve of her cheek.
"Yes," she managed. "A little shaken up, is all."
The American straightened to his full height, and Olivia took stock of the width of his shoulders and the natural
grace with which he carried himself. "It ain't smart for a woman like you to be alone in a place like this," he said
gruffly. "Where's your husband?"
"Gone, I mean, dead, I mean..." Olivia stammered. She couldn’t understand where her poise had gone. Though she
was a bit rattled from her encounter with the toughs, it still couldn’t explain her muddled thoughts and complete inability
to speak coherently. She was thirty-two years old, for goodness’s sake. Far too old to stutter like a girl fresh from the
schoolroom.
The American removed his hat and looked solemn. "My condolences, ma'am."
"It's all right," she said. She sounded terribly breathless. In the twilight she saw that the American had sandy hair, a
bit unkempt, but clean. There was no way to tell how old he was. His jaw was square, and she followed its line into the
strong column of his neck. Olivia clenched her hands into fists to keep from pressing her palms against the skin of his
throat. She wanted to feel the energy of him. He had the strength and power of someone quite young, not to mention
the enthusiasm for violence, but in his gaze she could see more than a lifetime's experience. She wondered what he had
experienced. "It was years ago."
"Glad to hear it," he said with a wry, almost boyish smile.
"You are the first to say so," she answered back smartly, without offense.
He broke into a wide grin. "You're full of pepper."
"Is that a good thing?"
"Ma'am, it's a great thing."
She felt spellbound, liquid, but intensely aware. He still held her novel, but she wasn't prepared to claim it just yet.
She wasn’t completely sure everything that was happening—that had happened—was not some dream and that she
would be roused in a moment by Sarah, her maid, who would pour her chocolate and give her a stack of the day's
correspondence as morning sunlight filled her bedroom.
And then the strangest image sprang into her mind. In her vision, she wasn't alone in her bed. The American was
there, too, without a scrap of clothing. Come to think of it, she was naked, too.
She prayed that he could not read her mind, but she thought she detected the faintest trace of a flush in his tanned
cheeks.
The clatter of carriage wheels broke her reverie.
"My lady!" Arthur cried. "I am so terribly sorry to have kept you waiting—"
"Where the hell have you been?" the American demanded before Olivia could speak.
Her coachman blinked in astonishment and the footman jumped down.
"I should haul your ass down from there and beat you five ways 'til Sunday," the cowboy continued to rant. Arthur
shrank back on his post and looked at Olivia with questioning, terrified eyes.
"Some men tried to accost me," Olivia explained.
"They would've done a lot worse if I hadn't shown up," the American snarled. "And on account of you," he pointed
an accusatory finger at Arthur, "bein' too busy polishing your forehead."
Arthur gingerly touched a finger to the offending brow. "The carriage threw a wheel, my lady," he said. "And we
couldn’t fix it for love or money." He looked extremely upset. "I will understand if you want my resignation—"
"Damn right!" the American interrupted.
"You will not swear in the presence of Lady Xavier," Arthur insisted haughtily.
"I'll cook up your guts and serve 'em for church supper," the American shot back. "With cornbread and greens."
"Enough!" Olivia said, stepping forward with outstretched palms. She first turned to Arthur. "You ought to have
checked the wheel before you left." The coachman bowed his head in acknowledgment of his failure. "Don't let it
happen again. I was fortunate that Mister..." She looked at the American, realizing that she didn’t even know his name.
"Coffin, ma'am," he supplied. "Will Coffin."
A flutter moved through Olivia's throat. What an unbelievably appropriate name. "Yes...Mister Coffin. It was quite
fortunate that you happened to come by. Most providential." Everything seemed to be turned upside down. Cowboys
in London. Impossible. "And what are you doing here, Mister Coffin?" It felt nice to say his name, a bit dangerous,
sharp and exotic in her mouth.
"I'm stayin' across the river," he said, not fully understanding. He tilted his head east. "I think they call it Wapping."
"You came here all the way from Wapping?" she asked, amazed. "That's quite a distance."
"I like to know what I'm dealin' with when I go to a new place." He was so large and shaggy, so unlike anything or
anyone she had ever known, he continued to amaze her. "I'm in some flophouse they got down by the docks. I was
gettin' the lay of the land when I heard the doin's over here and thought I'd see what was what."
"I'm very glad you did hear the doings, " Olivia answered. She smiled at him and she realized that it was one of the
first genuine smiles she'd given anyone in a long time. And she didn't even know this man. "I feel I must offer you
some kind of reward for your kindness to me."
"Reward?" he asked with a frown.
She considered where he said he was staying, a "flophouse," which did not sound particularly pleasant or
accommodating. And Wapping certainly wasn't known as one of the finer neighborhoods. So she did what she had
been trained to do: throw money at people. "Of course, a reward. Some money, perhaps. Arthur?" she asked, since her
few shillings were lying in the street.
"Yes, my lady," the coachman said, and reached into his pocket. She would reimburse him later, since she never
traveled with more than a sovereign. Everything was on account, and everyone accepted her credit. She was the
widow of a businessman, a successful business owner, and more likely to pay her bills than a peer's spouse.
"Keep it," Will Coffin said.
Olivia looked at him with surprise. He was angry. And angry in a different way than when he was fighting the
thugs. This was a deep, personal anger that vibrated off of him like an inaudible sound.
"But—"
"I don't want your money."
"I've insulted you."
Will Coffin put his hat back on, and what she had seen of his face became obscured. She suddenly felt very foolish
and gauche, younger and more awkward than she had felt in years.
"Ma'am," he said, stepping back. "I've got to get back before this damned fog turns me blinder than a mule in a
mineshaft."
"Really, Mister Coffin, can I not—?"
"You get on home, and don't go walkin' by yourself in mean territory."
Before she knew it, her footman was helping her into her carriage. "Can I at least give you a ride?" she asked,
though, again, she was violating the rules of propriety by inviting a man into the carriage with her.
She need not have worried. Even as the words were leaving her mouth, Will Coffin tipped his hat, a definitive
dismissal. But courtly, in its way. Like him, a strange amalgam of coarseness and chivalry. Again she felt his eyes on
her, one final, measuring gaze that swept over her in a warm tide. She kept one hand braced on the open carriage door
as Will Coffin turned and, in the arc of his coat, disappeared into the foggy London evening. Strange how such a big
man could vanish so completely. She strained, and could just make out the fading sound of his boots against the
pavement. In his wake, the commonplace and often irritating fog became a spectral coda, an annoyance turned
enigmatic through his presence and absence.
"We really ought to go, my lady," Arthur said.
Olivia barely noticed when the footman closed the door after her and the carriage began to move north, across the
river and back to Bayswater, back to everything familiar. She kept staring out the window, hoping to catch another
glimpse of Will Coffin but finding in his place only fog.