Her lips moved as he kissed them. Trying to talk. Dear girl. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue home. And she melted against him, her capable hands clutching at his biceps in a way that made him want to protect her, take on the world for her. “Marry me, Poppy.” He kissed her again. Again. “Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.” Soft kisses to underscore the seriousness of his need, and how he’d just laid his heart’s desire bare beneath that tree.
“Win.” Her fingers curled into his hair. She held him still and kissed him with a passion that had his heart racing. But she did not say yes.
Chapter Eleven
Bugger all.” Winston pinched the bridge of his nose. God, tunneling into Poppy had been like coming home. She was the only woman he’d ever been with, had ever wanted. And he had swived her as if she were nothing more than a whore. He was a bastard to do it. He should not have touched her. Nothing was settled between them, and sex only complicated matters. He should have left the room the moment she’d entered it. Hell, there were so many things he should have done differently, he was losing track of them now. He had become, as Sheridan liked to say, a monumental cock-up.
Winston sank farther back into the corner of his booth in the Grand Salon and tapped a quick rhythm out on the marble tabletop. “Christ,” he said to the tiny reflection of himself that floated along the surface of his coffee, “you have become quite the maudlin sop, haven’t you?” Laughing softly, he rubbed a hand over his face. Step one on the road back to sanity, stop talking to yourself.
Beyond the lofty silence in the salon, he could hear the muffled gaiety of his fellow travelers in the dining hall across the way, the occasional clink of china, and the ever-present hum of the engines. And then, over it all, came the sound of footsteps, steady and deliberate. For no accountable reason, the sound had the hairs along Winston’s arms standing at attention and sent a shiver of warning down his spine. Slowly, like a man forced to face his executioner, Winston raised his head.
A man strolled directly down the center aisle of the salon, his reflection wavering in the polished marble floor. Attired in the precise lines of a black walking suit, his only nod to color was a scarlet ascot and the glint of gold from his watch chain. His features were lost beneath the brim of his top hat but a glimmer lit his eyes as they locked onto Winston. His stride was languid, as if he enjoyed having Winston watch him, and Winston’s jaw locked, equal parts revulsion and irritation heating his blood. But years of instinct told him not to look away.
The man moved under a shaft of gaslight, and Winston’s blood stilled. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but, for one sharp moment, the man appeared to have scars upon his cheek just as Winston did. His hair was the same wheat color and shaggy, a waving, rumpled mess that mirrored Winston’s. Then the man came closer, and the illusion faded, revealing close-cut reddish brown hair and a face devoid of scars. He stopped directly in front of Winston’s table.
“Hello, Winston Lane.” The voice was smooth, soft even, and enough to send another tremor of foreboding down Winston’s spine. Christ, was this the demon Poppy had warned him about? Only one way to find out.
“Do I know you?” Winston asked plainly. No chance in hell was he revealing his disquiet to this man.
The man’s thin lips furled into a smile. “Now there’s a question.” Without waiting to be asked, he pulled out the chair across from Winston and sat. The scent of coal smoke and patchouli tickled Winston’s nostrils. Crossing one leg over the other, the man sat back and regarded Winston with shadowed eyes. “Do you know me?”
The man was either mad, or he was the demon. Win didn’t like his odds at the moment.
When Win didn’t answer him, the man made a sound of amusement. “Since you have no memory of our earlier meeting, which,” he pulled a thin, gold case from his coat pocket, “is in truth my fault entirely, you may call me Mr. Jones.”
“Mr. Jones,” Winston repeated dubiously. My aunt Fanny. Out of reflex, Win’s hand moved to the place where he kept his gun, only to realize, rather