pleasure in the new sights began to overcome her caution. They passed Delmonico's famous restaurant and Wallach's Theatre, where Charlotte Cushman was appearing in
Cain drew up in front of an imposing brownstone. 'Watch the horses, boy. I won't be long.'
At first Kit didn't mind the wait. She surveyed the houses around her and watched the sparkling carriages with their well-dressed occupants flash by. But then she thought of Charleston, reduced to rubble, and the familiar bitterness rose inside her.
'A perfect day for a drive. And I have the most amusing story to tell you.'
Kit looked up to see an elegant woman with shining blond curls and a pretty, pouting mouth come down the steps on Cain's arm. She was dressed in strawberry silk and held a lacy white parasol to protect her pale skin from the afternoon sun. A tiny froth of a bonnet perched on top of her head. Kit detested her on sight.
Cain helped the woman into the carriage and politely assisted her with her skirts. Kit's opinion of him sank even lower. If this was the kind of woman he fancied, he wasn't as smart as she'd figured.
She put her scuffed boot on the iron step and swung herself into the rear seat. The woman jerked around in astonishment. 'Baron, who is this filthy creature?'
'Who're you callin' filthy?' Kit sprang from the seat, her hands balled into fists.
'Sit down,' Cain barked.
She glared at him, but his Rebel-murdering expression didn't flicker. With a glower, she sank back into the seat, then gave the evil eye to the back of that pert strawberry-and-white bonnet.
Cain eased the carriage into the traffic. 'Kit is my stable boy, Dora. I brought him along to stay with the horses in case you wanted to walk in the park.'
The ribbons on Dora's bonnet fluttered. 'It's much too warm to walk.'
Cain shrugged. Dora adjusted her parasol and settled into a silence that screamed her displeasure, but to Kit's satisfaction, Cain paid no attention.
Unlike Dora, Kit wasn't prone to sulking, and she gave in to the pleasure of the bright summer afternoon and the landmarks he continued to point out. This was the only chance she'd ever get to see New York City, and even if she had to do it with her sworn enemy, she intended to enjoy it.
'This is Central Park.'
'I don't see why they call it that. Any fool can tell it's at the north edge of the city.'
'New York is growing fast,' Cain replied. 'Right now there's mainly open land around the park. A few shanties, some farms. But it won't be long before the city takes over.'
Kit was about to voice her skepticism when Dora spun in her seat and fixed her with a withering glare. The message clearly said Kit wasn't to open her mouth again.
Fixing a simpering smile on her face, Dora turned back to Cain and patted his forearm with a hand gloved in strawberry lace. 'Baron, I have a most amusing story to tell you about Sugar Plum.'
'Sugar who?'
'You remember. My darling little pug.'
Kit made a face and leaned back in the seat. She watched the play of light as the carriage slipped along the tree-lined promenade that ran through the park. Then she found herself studying Dora's bonnet. Why would anybody wear something so silly? And why couldn't Kit keep her eyes off it?
Two women riding in a black landau passed in the other direction. Kit noticed how eagerly they gazed at Cain. Women sure did seem to make fools of themselves over him. He knew how to handle horses, she'd give him that. Still, that didn't count much with a lot of women. They were more interested in how a man looked.
She tried to study him objectively. He was a handsome son of a bitch, no doubt about that. His hair was the same color as wheat right before harvest time, and it curled a little over the back of his collar. As he turned to make a comment to Dora, his profile stood out against the sky, and she decided there was something pagan about it, like the drawing she'd seen of a Viking-a smooth, high brow, a straight nose, and an aggressive line to the jaw.
'… then Sugar Plum pushed the raspberry bonbon away with her nose and picked a lemon one instead. Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever heard?'
Pugs and raspberry bonbons. The woman was a damn fool. Kit sighed loudly.
Cain glanced back at her. 'Is something wrong?'
She tried to be polite. 'I don't hold much with pugs.'
There was a slight movement at the corner of Cain's mouth. 'Now, why is that?'
'You want my honest opinion?'
'Oh, by all means.'
Kit darted a disgusted glare at Dora's back. 'Pugs are sissy dogs.'
Cain chuckled.
'That boy is impertinent!'
Cain ignored Dora. 'You prefer mutts, Kit? I've noticed you spend a lot of time with Merlin.'
'Merlin spends time with me, not the other way around. I don't care what Magnus says. That dog's 'bout as worthless as a corset in a whorehouse.'
'Baron!'
Cain made a queer, croaking noise before he recovered his composure. 'Maybe you'd better remember there's a lady present.'
'Yessir,' Kit muttered, although she didn't see what that had to do with anything.
'That boy doesn't know his place,' Dora snapped. 'I'd fire any servant who behaved so outrageously.'
'I guess it's a good thing that he works for me, then.'
He hadn't raised his voice, but the rebuke was clear, and Dora flushed.
They were nearing the lake, and Cain pulled the carriage to a stop. 'My stable boy isn't an ordinary servant,' he continued, his tone somewhat lighter. 'He's a disciple of Ralph Waldo Emerson.'
Kit looked away from a family of swans gliding between the canoes to see if he was making fun of her, but he didn't seem to be. Instead, he laid his arm over the back of the leather seat and turned to face her. 'Is Mr. Emerson the only writer you read, Kit?'
Dora's indignant huff made Kit garrulous. 'Oh, I read 'bout everything I can lay mv hands on. Ben Franklin, of course, but most everybody reads him. Thoreau, Jonathan Swift. Edgar Allan Poe when I'm in the mood. I don't hold much with poetry, but otherwise I have a generally voracious appetite.'
'So I see. Maybe you just haven't read the right poets. Walt Whitman, for example.'
'Never heard of him.'
'He's a New Yorker. Worked as a nurse during the war.'
'I don't reckon I could stomach a Yankee poet.'
Cain lifted an amused brow. 'I'm disappointed. Surely an intellectual like yourself wouldn't let prejudice interfere with an appreciation for great literature.'
He was laughing at her, and she felt her hackles rising. 'It surprises me you even know the name of a poet, Major, 'cause you don't look much like a reader to me. But I guess that's the way it is with big men. All the muscle goes to their bodies, not sparin' much for the brain.'
'Impertinent!' Dora shot Cain an I-told-you-so look.
Cain ignored it and studied Kit more closely. The boy had guts, he'd give him that. He couldn't be older than thirteen, the same age Cain had been when he'd run away. But Cain had nearly reached his adult height at that time, while Kit was small, only a couple of inches over five feet.
Cain noted how delicate the boy's grimy features were: the heart-shaped face, the small nose with its decided upward tilt, and those thickly lashed violet eyes. They were the kind of eyes women prized, but they looked foolish on a boy and would look even more outlandish when Kit grew to be a man.
Kit refused to flinch under his scrutiny, and Cain felt a spark of admiration. The daintiness of his features probably had something to do with his pluck. Any boy who looked so delicate must have been forced to do a lot of fighting.
Still, the kid was too young to be on his own, and Cain knew he should turn him over to an orphan asylum. But even as he considered the idea, he understood he wouldn't do it. There was something about Kit that reminded Cain of himself at that age. He was feisty and stubborn, walking through life daring somebody to take a swing at
