LITMIR.BIZ

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       He smoothed his blood-spattered cravat against his throat and set his chin, avoiding her gaze. “Whilst I am pleased that you are here, for I was beginning to wonder if anyone would come, given my inability to remember names, I ask that we save this conversation for another time. Would you be so kind as to return me to my flat? I’m exhausted.”

       She paused. “Your flat? You mean you know where it is?”

       His brow wrinkled. “Yes and no. I thought it was located on rue des Francs-Bourgeois, but Dr. Carter informed me that we are not in Paris, but in New York. So I suppose the answer is no. I don’t know where my flat is.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. You know where I live, don’t you?”

       She tapped her own temple. “If I knew where you lived, Brit, I’d be droppin’ you off right now and thankin’ the good Lord for havin’ saved me from a guilt I’ve no right to feel.”

       He eyed her. “I sense there is an animosity between us.”

       “You’d be sensin’ right, given what you wanted out of me before you earned that knock to your head.”

       “I see.” He blew out a pained breath and muttered, “I suppose that leaves me to find myself a hotel, as I am not one to perpetuate arguments I cannot even remember.” He paused and glanced down at himself, patting his coat pockets. “Did I not have a pocketbook? How am I to pay for anything?”

       Dr. Carter gathered several ledgers from his desk, organizing them. “Your pocketbook is already accounted for, Mr. Crusoe. How are you feeling?”

       “Aside from these damnable headaches, I feel remarkably well. Better.”

       “Good. ’Tis my hope that the headaches will fade in time. Try to rest.” Dr. Carter rounded the desk with a stack of ledgers in hand. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I intend to retire early tonight and call upon an acquaintance of mine who happens to be the owner of the New-York Evening Post. Perhaps we can get this story into tomorrow’s paper, seeing it has yet to print. Given its popularity, I’m certain other newspapers will follow suit. We’ll commence there and hope for the best.” He inclined his head and strode out of the office.

       Georgia swiveled toward the Brit, who quietly observed her with marked curiosity. His gaze drifted down the full length of her and paused on her boots, which peered out from beneath her ankle-high skirts.

       “The leather on your boots is almost white,” he commented. “You should buy yourself a new pair.”

       He was like a child. “How very observant. If only I could afford a new pair.” Stepping toward him, Georgia grabbed up his gloved hand and pressed his satchel into it. “This is yours, Brit. It has all of your money in it, so I suggest you keep it safe ’til we get across town.”

       He hesitated, shifting the satchel in his hand before slipping it into the inner pocket of his gray coat. “Why do you keep calling me Brit?”

       “Because that’s what you are. A Brit.”

       “I would rather you call me Robinson. I don’t like the way you say Brit.”

       “Not to disappoint you, Brit, but I usually call people whatever I want. ’Tis my born right as a United States citizen. I may not be able to vote, but no man is goin’ to tell me I can’t use my tongue.” Georgia paused and pointed to his sleeved coat, noting that the band was missing from his arm. “You had a mournin’ band. Did you lose it? Or did you strip it?”

       He glanced down at his arm. “I was wearing a…mourning band?”

       “That you were. Right there on your arm.”

       He glanced up, searching her face, his features taut and panicked. “Who died?”

       Georgia’s stomach dropped all the way down to her toes as she met his gaze. There was an aching vulnerability lingering within those handsome gray eyes that seemed to depend on her for everything. It made her want to give the man everything.

       She softened her tone. “I don’t know who died. All I know is that you were wearin’ one when I last saw you.”

       He dug his gloved fingertips into the biceps of his right arm and winced. “Why can I not remember?”

       “Try not to worry. Rememberin’ is overrated, anyway. Trust me. I wish there was a way I could forget half my life.” She drifted closer, sighed and leaned toward him to get a better look at what needed to be stripped before they crossed into the other side of town. She fingered the sturdy material on the seam of his morning coat. The fine fabric had to be worth ten dollars without the stitching. “Heavens, you’re a walkin’ merchant cart waitin’ to be robbed. We’ll have to alter your appearance ’til we’re able to get rid of these clothes.”

       He stiffened, lowering his gaze to her probing fingers. “And what is wrong with my appearance or my clothes?”

       “Everythin’.” She sniffed, the heat of his muscled body wafting the subtle fragrance of tonic and penny shaving cream. “I hate to say it, but you even smell wrong.”

       He blinked rapidly. “Are you suggesting that I bathe? Because I just did. Fifteen minutes ago.”

       “Nah, I’m suggestin’ quite the opposite. I only bathe and scrub once every two days and even that’s considered a bit much in the eyes of where I live. But then again, I’m a woman and you’re not. In my ward, if a man starts playin’ with too much soap and tonic, he’s likely to get a reputation for wearin’ pink garters.”

       “I don’t wear pink garters.”

       “I didn’t say you did. But that won’t keep the boys from sayin’ it. And you sure as hell don’t want a byname with the word pink in it. Now let’s get rid of some of these fineries, shall we?” She tapped at his cravat. “Off with it.”

       He paused, his gaze trailing down to her lips. “Does this mean there is no further need for a hotel?”

       Georgia nervously smoothed her hands against the sides of her calico skirts, sensing he was still confused as to who she was. Wetting her lips, she chose her words carefully, hoping not to send him into a panic. “I can only apologize for Dr. Carter. He means well, but it isn’t right makin’ you think I’m someone I’m not.”

       His brows flickered. “I don’t understand.”

       “I’m not your wife or your mistress or whoever you think I am. The name is Georgia. You know, like the state. You can call me that, if you want, but I prefer Mrs. Milton until we get to know each other more.” She gestured toward his throat. “Now remove your cravat.”

       He stared her down. “If I ever decide to undress for you, Mrs. Milton, it won’t be upon your command but mine.”

       She glared at him. “Oh, now, don’t you get cheeky with me, Brit. I’m not askin’ you to undress for my sake. I’m askin’ you to undress for yours. We can’t have you prancin’ about in silk over on Orange Street. You’ll get dirked. Now take it off.”

       He stepped back. “Absolutely not. What would your husband say, Mrs. Milton?”

       Her lips thinned. Perhaps it was best he thought Raymond was alive. It would keep him from thinking she was up for a toss. “The man would say, for the good of your own breath, you’d best take off the cravat.”

       “Oh, no, he wouldn’t. He would say, ‘If you take anything off in the presence of my wife, you will cease to breathe.’”

       She let out an exasperated laugh. “As amusin’ as I find you and this, all omnis cease runnin’ in an hour. Do you want to walk fifteen blocks in the dark? I don’t. Now take off the cravat. Even with it bein’ spattered with blood, it makes you look too much like a gentleman.”

       “I should probably point out that I consider myself to be a gentleman.”

       She quirked a brow, challenging him.

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