Between the Marshal & the Vampire(3)

"It's understandable to be scared," he told her, "but you won't come to harm. I'll do everything in my power to ensure that."

In the face of that promise, it felt petty to continue keeping him at a distance. "Thank you… Clay."

That brought out a rakish smile. He sat back. "Now that's more like it. May I have the honor of calling you Mariel? It's a lovely name. Rolls right off the tongue."

She could imagine him whispering it in the dark, in fact. She looked out the window again to avoid his amused, knowing gaze.

Mariel was no virgin. She'd been married, briefly, but Carl had succumbed to Scarlet Fever only two months into their marriage. Their brief union hadn't produced children, thank goodness, but Mariel knew enough of bedding a man. She knew exactly what Marshal Carson's—Clay's—look meant.

And she was troubled by her indecisiveness regarding it. The man would toss her skirts and move on. He had no business in Willowtown. He was too important, and his reputation proved that he wasn't interested in settling down with a single woman. I have my pride, she thought to herself. I don't need him to feel special.

But another part of her, long buried with her husband, yearned to know what it would feel like to give in to Clay's interest. The man was experienced. He likely knew all sorts of ways to bring a woman pleasure. What would sex be like with a man like that? She wished part of her didn't badly want to know.

"You may call me Mariel," she said tentatively, aware she'd opened a door between them and Clay, being who he was, would saunter right through it.

"Excellent," he said softly.

To her relief, Clay twisted around to stretch out on the bench again. "I'd best catch a few winks since it'll be my turn out there tonight. Wouldn't want to fall off my horse just because I was knackered. You might accuse me of being distracted."

She smiled at his comical look of dismay.

He picked up his hat. "Until this evening..Mariel."

He winked before settling his hat once more over his face. Released from his confident regard, Mariel breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

~~~~~

Clay awoke when the dinner trolley paused on the rail just outside their compartment door and politely chimed for service.

"Only downside to having the last compartment in the last passenger car is you get served last," he grumbled before yawning.

Mariel figured their positioning on the train was strategic in some way, perhaps putting their backs to a wall so no one could sneak up on them from behind. She was hungry, though, and agreed with him that it had taken too long to receive food. She eagerly looked through the selections within the warming case.

"Do you think there's any chance we'll make it to Everton Fort unmolested?" she asked casually once she'd selected a meat pie and sat back with the dining table pulled out between them.

Clay, who'd selected a hearty-looking roll stuffed with beef as well as a slice of cherry pie, considered the pie from several angles as he replied. "There's a chance of anything, though not much of one if I'm being honest." He looked at her. "And I'll always be honest with you, Mariel. You deserve that for what you're risking here."

The pie burned her fingers but she ignored it. "Then tell me: will I survive this trip?"

Clay lowered his roll. "I promise you: I will breathe my last before you do."

It was hardly consolation, even if he meant it that way. Mariel regarded her pie, her appetite now gone. "So this is suicide."

"Mariel."

She raised her gaze to his.

"I'm no green boy playing with his first six-shooter. And Darrell is a crack shot as well. We're the best men you could have defending you. But maybe our skills won't be needed. Beaufort's gang may attempt to break him out of jail instead. Or they may storm the courthouse and try to rescue him there. There's no guarantee that you're their focus. They're aware that you've been put under the protection of the Marshals. Attacking you would bring on the added heat of attacking the Empire. I'm thinking that may make them think twice about hitting the train."

She wanted to believe him. She was only twenty-six. Far too young to die and she had responsibilities, such as an inn to run. Clay had said the trip would take approximately three weeks. If she wanted to return home with her nerves and sanity intact, she'd have to trust him, even if that involved a good measure of self-delusion.

"Here."

He held a dripping, glazed cherry toward her mouth. Rather than pull away as she knew she should, she parted her lips. Clay's gaze held hers as he gently placed the fruit between her lips. She pulled the globe into her mouth and licked the glaze from her lip. Clay was slow in moving his fingers away. If she extended her tongue, she would touch him.

Do I want to touch him?

She pondered the question. A better one might be:

Do I think this may be the last time I get to? I might end up dead before too long.

He moved his hand away, freeing her from her inner dilemma.

"Keep up your strength," he told her quietly. "We've got a long way to go and I want you showing up at that courthouse looking as fresh and lovely as you do now."

"I can see that those rumors are true," Mariel said as she sat back. "About the women and your apprehension record."