Frontier Engagement. Regina Scott

Two

      She was waiting on the porch with several other ladies when James drew the horses to a stop in front of the boardinghouse. Despite the fact that she had said she would only come to visit, standing beside her was a trunk that would all but fill the bed of his wagon. James tried not to cringe.

      She’d also changed clothes for the journey. This gown was purple, the bodice fitted to her form, with bands of white satin sculpting the collar, shoulders and waist. Triple bands of the stuff followed the curves of her wide skirts. A straw bonnet with velvet ribbons covered her shiny curls. How could his family possibly find fault?

      Determined to match her formality, he wiped the smile from his face, stepped down from the bench and marched up the walk. Stopping at the edge of the porch, he tipped his hat.

      “Ladies.”

      She stepped forward. “Mr. Wallin. Shall we?”

      The others were watching her so solemnly he might have been Death come to take her on her final journey. He offered his arm. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Fosgrave.”

      He thought he heard a sigh of envy from one of the other ladies.

      If Miss Fosgrave heard it, she gave no indication. She merely accepted his arm, her touch light and sure. James walked her to the wagon as if escorting her to a dance. He couldn’t deny there was something fine about strolling beside a lady in all her glory. His brothers might tease him unmercifully about his liking for fine clothing, calling him a dandy and far too citified, but he’d always appreciated the sheen of satin, the brush of fine wool. Women weren’t the only ones who sometimes had a hankering to look good.

      But looking good came at a price on the frontier, and he spied the problem with Miss Fosgrave’s pretty gown the moment they reached the wagon. She couldn’t possibly climb up onto the bench in those skirts. When she paused with a frown as if realizing the issue, he bent and scooped her up in his arms.

      Her eyes, now on a level with his, were as clear as spring water. They widened as she cried, “Really, Mr. Wallin! What are you doing?”

      “Just my duty, ma’am,” he promised, setting her up into the bench.

      Face turning pink, she arranged her skirts around her. “A little warning would have been preferable.”

      He leaned against the wagon and grinned up at her. “Very well. I promise to warn you the next time I feel an urge to take you up in my arms.”

      The blush deepened, and she faced forward rather than look at him. “A warning that will end any such thoughts, I trust. Now, if you’d be so good as to fetch my trunk.”

      “Please?” he suggested.

      Her mouth tightened. “Please.”

      James pushed off from the wagon and swept her a bow. “At once, your royal highness.”

      Her look speared back to him. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.”

      Why had he thought her eyes as cool and refreshing as clean water? Now they positively boiled with emotions. What had he done to earn her wrath?

      James kept his own face still, determined not to give her any reason to change her mind. “Forgive me, ma’am. I meant no offense. Wait here, and I’ll get your things.”

      As he ventured back to the house, he shook his head. Why had she reacted that way to a simple tease? Did she think he was laughing at her expense? Nothing could be further from the truth. He’d only been trying to make her smile. It was obvious he’d have to work much harder to stay in her good graces. He nodded to the ladies still watching from the porch and put his hand to the trunk.

      One tug, and he nearly groaned aloud. What had she packed—enough bricks to build a house? With the other ladies standing there, and her waiting on the bench, he wasn’t about to admit it was too heavy. He seized the leather handle at either end and heaved it up into his arms. One of the ladies gave an “ooo” of appreciation at his demonstration of strength. It was all he could do not to stagger down the walk.

      Miss Fosgrave didn’t so much as look his way as he brought the trunk and shoved it into the bed of the wagon. Sweat trickled down his cheek as he made his way to the front once more.

      “All set,” he said, knowing a longer statement would likely come out breathless. He took up the reins and climbed onto the bench.

      “Good luck, Alexandrina!” one of the women called, and they all waved or fluttered handkerchiefs as if she were taking off on a grand journey.

      He could only hope the end of the trip would be more auspicious than the beginning and his family would find her as perfect as James did.

      * * *

      Alexandrina sat beside James Wallin, heartbeat slowly returning to normal. She hadn’t expected such a reaction, but then she’d never been held like that before. None of the men who had showed interest in her would have dared put an arm about her for fear of offending her family. One did not mistreat Princess Alexandrina Eugenia Fosgrave of Battenburgia.

      “Though of course we do not use our titles here,” Mr. Fosgrave would always confide to the rapt listener in a hushed tone. “Our enemies are everywhere. But when we have been returned to our kingdom, you will be well rewarded for your kindness.”

      It had been a potent promise, recalling days of pomp and circumstance that made the average American surprisingly sentimental. So everyone had treated her with kindness, deference, humility. Until the truth had come out. And there had been nothing kind in it.

      “Alexandrina,” James said, guiding his magnificent horses up a muddy, rutted trail that hardly did them justice. “That’s an unusual name. Does it run in your family?”

      She couldn’t tell him the fiction she’d grown up hearing, that it had been her great-grandmother’s name. “I don’t believe so. I’m not overly fond of it.”

      He nodded as if he accepted that. “Then why not shorten it? You could go by Alex.”

      She sniffed, ducking away from an encroaching branch on one of the towering firs that grew everywhere around Seattle. “Certainly not. Alex is far too masculine.”

      The branch swept his shoulder, sending a fresh shower of drops to darken the brown wool. “Ann, then.”

      She shook her head. “Too simple.”

      “Rina?” He glanced her way and smiled.

      Yes, he definitely knew the power of that smile. She could learn to love it. No, no, not love it. She was not here to fall in love but to teach impressionable minds. And a smile did not make the man. She must look to character, convictions.

      “Rina,” she said testing the name on her tongue. She felt a smile forming. It had a nice sound to it, short, uncompromising. It fit the way she wanted to feel—certain of herself and her future. “I like it.”

      He shook his head. “And you blame me for failing to warn you. You should have warned me, ma’am.”

      Rina—yes, she was going to think of herself that way—felt her smile slipping. “Forgive me, Mr. Wallin. What have I done that would require a warning?”

      “Your smile,” he said with another shake of his head. “It could make a man go all weak at the knees.”

      His teasing nearly had the same effect, and she was afraid that was his intention. He seemed determined to make her like him, as if afraid she’d run back to Seattle otherwise. She refused to tell him she’d accepted his offer more from desperation than a desire to know him better. And she certainly had no intention of succumbing to his charm.

      She clasped her hands together in her lap, one up, one down, fingers overlapping, and made herself look out over the horses. Sunlight through the trees dappled their black coats with gold.

      “Nonsense,” she said. “What about you? Why were you named James?”

      “It’s