"Why were you talking to them?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
He let out a sigh. "Taylor, didn't your grandmother tell you it's dangerous to talk to strangers?"
He asked the question in a low growl. "I was perfectly safe," she announced. "No one would dare accost me in the middle of the hotel lobby."
"Oh? And why is that?"
He was fully prepared to hear her answer, then give her a good lecture on her naivete. Hell, the lobby was so crowded, anyone could have grabbed hold of her and dragged her outside without being noticed. Didn't she know about the dangers inherent in the cities? Obviously not, he thought. Well, by God, he would make her understand.
Taylor was staring up at him with that wide-eyed, innocent stare. He wanted to shake some sense into her. He decided to scare her instead.
"Explain why no one would dare accost you," he ordered in a voice he thought sounded downright mean.
She stared him right in the eye when she gave him her answer. "You wouldn't let them."
The bluster went right out of him. Her answer, given so quickly and in such a matter-of-fact tone of voice, sliced right through his frustration and reached his heart. He was at a loss for words. The compliment shocked him. She was too trusting, he thought, and how could she have such faith in him? It was downright humbling.
"You're right I wouldn't let anyone touch you," he heard himself mutter.
She smiled. He glared. Lucas suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her.
Her next remark changed his inclination. "I happen to know for a fact that a woman can travel alone throughout this magnificent country and never have the fear she'll be bothered by a stranger."
He was back to wanting to shake some sense into her. "Taylor…" he began as a prelude to his lecture addressing her ridiculous opinions.
"I read it in a book, so it has to be true. Mrs. Livingston's journal of her travels through America was quite informative. She was never accosted."
"Was she old and wrinkled?"
"What difference does that make?"
He stared down into those incredible blue eyes for a long minute. "It makes a big difference," he snapped.
She decided to end the discussion by having the last word. "Please quit worrying. I assure you I will not be accosted by strangers."
"What about husbands?"
Chapter 6
They do not love who show their love.
—William Shakespeare,
The man had a warped sense of humor. It took Taylor a minute to understand what he was suggesting. She didn't get angry. Just irritated.
"I don't have any fear of being accosted by you, Mr. Ross. Should I?"
"Taylor…"
He said her name in a warning tone of voice. "Yes?" she replied.
"I'll be right back. Don't wander."
He squeezed her shoulders until she gave her agreement. Then he went back over to the front desk. She watched as he handed a key to one of the hotel's staff. He leaned forward and spoke to the man, then turned around and walked back to her.
"We're staying in the same room."
Her eyes widened. Mr. Ross didn't look at all happy about the arrangement. She shook her head. "You weren't able to secure a room of your own?"
"I gave it back."
"Why?"
"Because you draw a crowd."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind. We're married now and we've already slept in the same bed."
"But Mr. Ross…"
"Don't argue with me."
He grabbed hold of her hand and turned to walk over to her friend. He kept right on frowning until he reached Victoria. He smiled at her. He let go of Taylor and assisted Victoria to her feet.
"Shall we go upstairs and get you settled in your room?" he asked, his voice every bit as pleasant as a summer's breeze.
"Then you were able to secure a room for me?" Victoria asked. "There were so many gentlemen in the lobby I thought all the rooms must surely be taken."
The worried expression on her face told Taylor she'd obviously been sitting there fretting about their sleeping arrangements. Taylor felt terrible. Her new friend wouldn't have worried if she'd stayed by her side to soothe her fears. In her delicate condition, she shouldn't be worrying about anything. Expectant mothers needed a tranquil environment. They needed rest, too. Poor Victoria looked exhausted.
Taylor stepped forward to apologize. "I've been very thoughtless," she said. "I should have stayed with you. I'm sorry, Victoria."
"I was quite all right," Victoria replied, embarrassed over the attention she was getting. "Several gentlemen tried to keep me company, but I sent them on their way. Will you tell me what was going on over there? Why were all those men cheering?"
"The porter's waiting," Lucas announced. "Taylor will explain later. Shall we go upstairs?"
His impatience was apparent. He glanced back over his shoulder several times on the way up the stairs to the gallery level of the hotel, and Taylor thought he was anxious to get away from his admirers.
Their rooms were on the fourth floor. Victoria's bedroom was at one end of a long, winding corridor, and Lucas and Taylor's room was at the opposite end. Lucas left Taylor to help Victoria with her unpacking and went with the porter down to their rooms to see to the deposit of their luggage. The trunks would be left in storage in the hotel's basement for safekeeping until they departed.
Victoria's room had been painted a pale lemon yellow that Taylor declared was very soothing on the eyes. It wasn't a large room, but it was elegantly appointed. The furniture was a dark, polished cherry wood. Taylor couldn't resist trailing her fingers over the exquisite detail on the front of the wardrobe. The craftsman must have spent months carving the delicate design of leaves on the front of both the dresser and the wardrobe.
While she hung up Victoria's dresses, her friend went to look out the window.
"I didn't realize how sophisticated Boston was," she remarked. "It's every bit as modern as London, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is," Taylor agreed. "There's a laundry downstairs, Victoria. If you need anything washed and pressed, the hotel staff boasts they will have it back to you in less than a day. Madam told me in the literature she read that most of the better hotels have steam laundries attached and that businessmen never have to bring more than a single shirt when they travel. And do you know why?" she asked. "The linen is washed in a machine that actually churns. It's moved about by steam, you see, and wrung out by a strange method called centrifugal force. The shirts are dried by currents of hot air. God's truth, they can be washed, dried, and ironed in just a few minutes. Isn't that amazing?"
Victoria didn't answer her. Taylor had been so occupied unpacking her friend's clothing, she hadn't noticed how withdrawn Victoria had become. When she didn't get an answer or a comment about the marvel of steam laundries, she turned to look at her friend. Victoria was sitting on the side of her double bed. Her hands were folded in her lap and her head was bent so low, her chin was all but touching her chest. She looked dejected and horribly sad.
Taylor immediately stopped what she was doing and went over to stand in front of her friend. "Is something worrying you?" she asked. "No."
She gave her answer in a soft whisper. She sounded pathetic. Taylor frowned with concern. Something was definitely wrong all right, and she was determined to find out what it was.
"Are you ill?" she asked, her worry obvious in her voice. "No."
Taylor stared down at her friend for a long minute. She wanted Victoria to tell her what was wrong. She didn't want to nag the problem out of her. Well-bred young ladies didn't pry, and they never, ever nagged. It was, in Madam's estimation, the eleventh commandment.