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that, if Cole Shepherd had his way, would carry the three of them most of the distance to San Francisco. This was the train that, if Gwin had her way, would pull out of this station without them.
    "You've barely touched your lunch, Miss Pierce."
    The young Pinkerton detective wore an expression so insufferably patronizing, Gwin felt an urge to punch him right in the nose. Instead, she gave him a chilly smile. "If I wanted motherly advice, I'd ask for it, Shepherd."
    "Okay, but you might be sorry later. We won't be getting off the train again until the dinner hour. You should take a lesson from your little brother here."
    Arthur sat on a stool to Shepherd's right, ignoring them both and shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow. It mattered not to Arthur's growing-boy stomach what sort of dire situation they might be in.
    Gwin looked back at Shepherd to find those intelligent, tawny brown eyes settled on her. It was unnerving. She avoided his gaze by picking up her fork and playing with her eggs. He had her at a crippling disadvantage, even if he didn't know it. How could she think straight if she was constantly confronted with those eyes, that face?
    She supposed she could blame this on Emmaline. While she might have been a less-than-perfect mother, she was one humdinger of a storyteller. Even before Gwin had started to talk, Emmaline had regaled her daughter with dazzling bedtime stories; stories of kings and queens, princes and princesses, sorcerers, dragons, and white knights. Among Emmaline's favorites had been the King Arthur legends. She had told them to her young daughter so many times that it was no wonder Gwin's childhood dreams had begun to revolve around the fantasy.
    Over the years, the characters in these recurring dreams had taken on familiar faces and personalities. Gwin was always her own namesake, of course, that lady of all ladies, Queen Guinevere. Merlin soon came to resemble Silas. King Arthur as a child inevitably took on the precocious, shining personality of her baby brother. And as for the evil, scheming Morgan le Fay? Why, who else had been better equipped to take that part than Emmaline?
    It was Sir Lancelot, however, the greatest of all the knights of the Round Table, who had continued to remain faceless for so many years. The valorous, mysterious knight had rescued her from captivity or death how many times? Fifty? A hundred? And afterward, he would drop to one knee, kiss her hand, and profess his undying love, only to ride off into the sunset on his trusty white steed. After all, what had Gwin as a child known of passion and star-crossed love?
    Gwin could not remember exactly when it had been that she had stood as Guinevere on her palace balcony in Camelot, overlooking a jousting tournament on the field below. She could not remember exactly when it had been that her White Knight, victorious in battle, had removed his helmet and turned to gaze up at her.
    It had been then that his face had finally been revealed, and that face had been proud and intelligent and handsome and strong. It was nothing short of masculine perfection. What's more, he resembled no one that Gwin had ever known. That face had been her single most sublime creation, the fairest and gentlest and bravest of knights, her lover, her fantasy, her deepest, most intimate secret. He was hers and hers alone. Until yesterday .
    It was yesterday that her fantasy had come crashing down around her ears. It was yesterday that she had discovered that her knight in shining armor walked in the flesh. Her dream lover had turned out to be, of all the loathsome, vile things to walk and crawl upon the earth, a Pinkerton man .
    Gwin observed him out of the corner of her eye. His hair was the color of coffee with a splash of cream. It was so thick that it begged to be touched. He topped a lean six feet, and his chest and shoulders were broad enough to catch the attention of any woman with two eyes in her head. He was beautiful. Gwin