<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/8/8f/Marguerite_Tuerny_07.jpg/600px-Marguerite_Tuerny_07.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Marguerite Tuerny<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Main Street<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Harley, Open<br/><hr/>Marguerite walked the street in no great hurry.   The Golden Mare was just yards ahead, but what would she do when she got there?  She didn't like being alone.  And the prospect of the empty room - no matter how fine a room it was - waiting for her was anything but appealing.  Besides - she had a lot to think about.  Sloane.  That's what Mr. Whateley had called the man with the cigar.  Sloane - and he said he owned a Casino.  She didn't meet many men that chose to mock her rather than talk to her.  An odd man, and a disturbing one.  He'd practically admitted he was a murderer.  Which meant that either he was, or he suffered from a level of insecurity that he felt the need to intimidate with empty boasts.  He didn't seem insecure to her.  A dangerous man to bump into on the street.  And an intriguing one.  She didn't much care to be mocked as a sort of mildly amusing diversion.  Vexed vanity wasn't a reason to consider a man interesting.  So why was she still thinking about him?<br/><br/>She should be thinking about Nicodemus Whateley.  He was nearly as disturbing a man as Sloane, if in an entirely different way.  Attractive, sophisticated, composed, and oddly compelling.  Compelling, but there was something there - in the eyes maybe.  His features seemed frozen, almost dead...   He could teach reserve to an Englishman, a phrase she'd heard her father use for someone just a little too...  It was nonsense to consider him cold just because of somewhat wooden features.<br/><br/>She was almost at the hotel now, and something was wrong.  So very wrong.  Was she being watched?  She slowed her pace half a step to gaze intently at each passerby and loafer in view.  None seemed to pay her the slightest attention beyond the usually appreciative glance or envious glare in passing.  It was an eerie feeling, like someone was staring at her hard enough to bore a hole down into her soul.  Was she being followed?  She daren't turn about to check, and no convenient window offered a mirror.  Were those footsteps?  Yes, but they sounded quick and sure and not furtive or sneak...<br/><br/><strong>"Oh!"</strong>She nearly jumped from her skin when the taller woman pulled alongside and spoke.  Her heart was racing and her hand clutched her breast.<strong>"You startled me!"</strong>She accused.  Her step faltered for half a pace, but she immediately returned to her former pace.  Her composure returned nearly as quickly as she turned a brief sidelong glance toward the lovely stranger before turning her eyes firmly forward.<strong>"You were staring."</strong>She accused.  Of course.  Maybe she had been staring all this time.  That was where the feeling of being watched came from.  Perfectly ordinary attention from a...<br/><br/>The attention she was used to from women was usually catty envy.  Jealousy that she was so much prettier and thus a threat to them and their hold on their men.  But there were exceptions - the school chum that offered to teach her to kiss, the spinster tutor that was overly close when leaning over her shoulder as she read.  Such women confused her - what was the point?  A woman needed a man and a man needed a woman and it was all quite proper and even wonderful.  So why would a woman want her in that way?<br/><br/>And why was she even thinking about the matter at all?  Oh yes, because this pretty stranger had been watching her so intently that she felt eyes on her.  Which she still felt, though it was less disturbing now that she wasn't alone.  Was the woman watching her still, staring as they walked side-by-side?  It hardly seemed possible she tall beauty was the source of Marguerite's feeling, since her presence alleviated much of the dread.<br/><br/>She flashed another quick sideways glance at the woman, intending on catching her in the stare and confirming the suspicion that she was the source of the eerie feeling.  Only she wasn't staring at that moment.  The woman's eyes were forward, watching the street and their footing on the uneven boardwalk.  So she wasn't the source of the vague, unsettling feeling of being watched then.<br/><br/>Her sidelong glance was only meant to confirm her suspicion, to catch the woman staring at her.  Only a brief flicker and done.  But that brief flicker noted the woman's mannish clothing, her confident stride, the gun on her hip, and the lovely lines of her smooth cheek and delicate jaw.  She really was beautiful, and apparently unconcerned about it.<br/><br/>Curious.  Marguerite cast another brief sidelong glance at the woman that insisted on walking beside her.  It was a curious glance through the lashes, meant to be furtive and quick.  Only this time the tall woman was looking, catching her in what might be construed as a flirty glance!  Why had she looked again!?<br/><br/>She hastily looked away, pushing her chin up in an attempt to establish dignity she did not feel.  Looking forward, but not down, she failed to notice the unevenness of the boardwalk and was in danger of a serious misstep.